


you rid me of the blues

by justaboat



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 09:06:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3845176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justaboat/pseuds/justaboat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>louis goes to find harry. canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you rid me of the blues

**Author's Note:**

> hi. it's been a long while since i've written harry/louis fic, so i hope you all like it! this is for my lovely friend amber, since her birthday was months ago (loud booing) i have taken my SWEET TIME WITH THIS. but that's ok. happy birthday, babe. this is for you.
> 
> big thanks to leighanne, as always, for beta-ing and listening and talking and being the best. i love you lots. also to annie for yelling with/at me about this fic, having a thoughtful approach to it, and just understanding this fic sometimes more than i did. i owe you my life, i love you a lot. also ju and emma for yelling at me to finish, you two are the babes of all time.
> 
> if you read it, i hope you like it!

Louis checks his phone at half three with a voicemail from Harry.

He wonders if his eyes are deceiving him, reading over the name on the screen. But no, it’s Harry, clear as fucking day. Louis swallows, thumbing the notification up and down to keep the screen from going dark. 

It’s been almost four years, Louis reminds himself. The least he could do is give it a listen. 

Louis can still taste the weed on his tongue, head feeling light as he exhales a mouthful of smoke. He’s not _really_ high, just a little. If that’s even a thing. Being ‘a little high’. Louis doesn’t think it is. 

He debates texting, forgoing listening to the voicemail altogether. But if there’s one thing Harry Styles is consistently bad at, it’s that. Takes seconds to respond, or years at a time; there’s no middle ground.

The phone sounds loud, ringing in his ear. Once, twice, three, four times. No answer. He gets fucking voicemail. Louis ends the call, shoving his phone into his pocket — now irritated as he pads off into the kitchen, turning on the kettle.

He’s got the tea bag in a mug when his phone goes off, vibrating and insistent in his pocket. Despite the voice in his head saying this is a really fucking bad idea, Louis takes it out and answers it. “Hello?” he asks, moving his teabag around in the water.

“Hi,” comes a low voice. Louis feels himself tighten at the drawl of his words, slow and finding a familiar way to wrap themselves around Louis’ chest. 

Louis grips his phone. Reminds himself that this isn’t anything to get worked up over. “You normally call people at three in the morning?” he asks, keeping his tone neutral. 

There’s a pause. “It’s three thirty,” Harry finally says.

Louis can now hear the loud sounds on other line. Music, and lots of voices wherever the fuck Harry is right now. “You know, I do own a watch. One of the few possessions I’ve managed to keep track of,” Louis says flatly. 

Harry laughs; he sounds sad. “Why are you awake,” he asks.

“Because I’m an adult and can make my own decisions on when I go to bed,” Louis says. He leans his forehead against a cupboard, exhaling. He’s being an arsehole.

“Always so snappy when you’ve been smoking,” Harry says, like he knows. Louis fucking hates that he knows.

“Fuck off,” Louis spits, feeling something akin to anger blooming in his chest. Or hurt. He’s not sure he can differentiate between which it is right now. 

There’s a few moments where neither of them say anything. Louis isn’t sure if he likes it or not, the silence. If it’s weighted or just long. “Should go,” Harry says after a few moments.

“Why did you call,” Louis asks, because he doesn’t think he wants to say anything else.

“Don’t know. Just to check in, mostly,” Harry replies. “Bye, Lou.”

His mouth feels dry, hearing the nickname. Louis doesn’t say anything else before Harry disconnects the call, leaving him alone in his kitchen again. Feeling frustrated, he leaves his phone on the counter before going up to bed, turning off the lights and crawling under the covers.

— 

“He didn’t just call you because he was bored,” Liam tells him a few days later. They’re on FaceTime, Liam’s face propped up against the toaster. Louis narrows his eyes at him.

“What are you talking about,” Louis asks, stirring his pasta.

Fucking cooking, honestly. He fucking hates it. Can’t ever get the hang of it. “Harry,” Liam clarifies. Louis rolls his eyes. 

“Get on with it, Payne,” Louis says. “And get the fuck home from Paris, anyway. You’ve been gone nearly two weeks.”

Liam makes a face. “I told you I’d bring you back a souvenir,” he says. Louis scoffs.

“You always say that and never do. I’ve learned to never get my hopes up,” Louis says.

It’s the frown that follows, which worries Louis. He waits, not saying anything else until Liam speaks up again, “His dad —” 

“Shit,” Louis mutters, nearly dropping his spoon into the boiling water. “When?”

“About a week ago? Something like that,” Liam says. 

“Is Harry coming home?” Louis asks, watching Liam shake his head in the small screen of Louis’ phone. 

“Didn’t sound like it when I talked to him,” Liam says.

“So, what. He’s just staying in LA?” Louis asks.

But Liam just shrugs, “I have no idea. He didn’t say anything other than that, really.”

Louis frowns. He stares down at where his pasta is still boiling, two minutes left on the timer. Everything else is quiet, except for the sound of Liam moving around. “Alright,” Louis finally settles on saying.

He watches Liam open his mouth, then close it. Louis likes to think he knows what Liam was going to say, sitting there. “Alright?” Liam repeats.

Louis shifts, running a hand through his hair. “Don’t know what else you’re expecting me to say,” Louis says sharply.

But Liam doesn’t recoil. Just sits, as if waiting for something else to come out of Louis’ mouth, “I mean, maybe more than just ‘alright’.”

Louis huffs, defensive, and shakes his head. “There isn’t much to say,” he says, as if that’s the end of the discussion.

It’s not. But Louis wants to tell himself it is as he feels the intense stare of one Liam Payne upon him. It’s not like there’s much Louis can do to help the situation out, standing here in his home in London while Harry’s somewhere else much farther away. He feels helpless, Louis thinks after a few moments; but he’ll never admit it.

“Should go, then. Got some things to do before Sophia and I go out for dinner,” Liam says, breaking the silence between them.

Louis licks his lips, the pasta almost done, and ignores the small part of him that wants to ask Liam. Ask him if it would be a good idea, to go out there. Though Louis knows how that conversation would go, and he would rather not take the two of them down that road, thanks. He nods back at Liam. 

“Tell her I say hi,” Louis says. Liam smiles, something familiar that Louis knows. 

“I will, yeah,” Liam promises. “I’ll call again in the next couple of days.”

“You fucking better,” Louis says, though it’s hardly threatening. Especially if the laugh Liam gives him is anything to go by. When the call ends Louis doesn’t touch his pasta. Just leaves it to be dealt with later, as he walks up his stairs. Takes his phone out of his pocket and goes to sit on his bed, leaning back against the pillows.

He should’ve known. Some part of him, though Louis doesn’t know how large that is, is angry. Probably at the fact that he didn’t know until now. The fact that he knows why he didn’t know is a larger issue.

He can remember how Harry had sounded on the phone. Tired, and reminiscent. Which isn’t how he gets when he’s been drinking; that’s something Louis can recall easily. After just a few of whatever drink he’s stuck on at the moment he can become mouldable and so warm, always so fucking warm, hands soft and insistent on being latched onto someone.

“You don’t like cuddling,” Harry said, so long ago now Louis can hardly remember why they’d all been out. Possibly for someone’s birthday, on one of their tours. He isn’t sure.

Louis rolled his eyes, shoving at him, but Harry hadn’t moved. In fact, he’d tightened his grip where his entire body was pressed to Louis’ back. “You don’t know that,” Louis said, poking at his side. 

“Ok, well. You like cuddling with me,” Harry insisted, grin big and those dimples Louis can still see now, years later. Those fucking _dimples_.

Louis tried to push him off, but it didn’t even make a difference, “Come on, Styles. No time for you to be a big sap.”

Harry frowned, but it hadn’t stayed there long. “Just admit it,” he said, and Louis can still remember his breath against Louis’ cheek. Warm, and making goosebumps appear along his arm.

If Harry had noticed, he hadn’t said anything. 

But it wasn’t like that, on the phone the other night. Unlike himself, Louis thinks with a frown. And he knows why that is. Knows that Harry had called and expected Louis to be some sort of mind reader, knowing why it was he was ringing his number and why it was he was drunk and sad.

Though Louis’ mind reading days are long gone, especially when it comes to Harry. A lot of things are gone, with Harry.

He turns off his phone, not wanting to deal with anything else before Louis curls up in bed, arms around his waist and letting himself drift off. He ignores the guilt pressing heavy on his chest.

— 

There’s been an email sitting in his inbox for nearly two months now, unanswered, but read. Louis sees it occasionally if he’s scrolling through, always finding himself pausing on it before going through the rest of them.

It’s from Julian, asking if he’d like to come down to Los Angeles and help him with some things, though “things” are mostly Ed Sheeran’s new album. And while Louis is generally all for offers such as this, he hasn’t really felt a pressing need to get on a plane for LA, so responding felt as though it would be useless all around.

He hesitates, again, before continuing on. He’s got to actually get out of the house and go on a Tesco’s run, along with some other things before heading to a songwriting session. Louis sighs, pushing any and all idea’s from his head as he gets up from his bed.

He’ll look at the email later, maybe.

— 

Later turns into about half a week, with Louis sitting at his desk and staring blankly at his laptop screen.

So he sends back a response, just to see. Test the waters. Make sure they still want him there. Ask when they’d want him, how long he would be, what they all need him to do. The necessary questions, really, from where Louis is sitting.

It’s just a coincidence that Harry happens to be in the same state, which isn’t really the point. 

After answering the email Louis closes his laptop, moving to go watch something downstairs. The house is quiet, his footsteps echoing where he shuffles into the kitchen and switches on the kettle. He’s never really decided if he likes the silence or not, has never really thought he had an opinion on it. 

It all feels too big and too small, all at once. Like something’s missing and this is exactly how Louis always wanted it, his life. To be here, by himself, and in this house and have everything in place. 

Well, mostly everything.

Once the kettle goes off Louis pours the hot water into his mug, cupping his hands around it and moving to sit onto the couch. Being here alone is nice sometimes, except on nights like this. When his thoughts are so loud and his head fucking _hurts_ , not being able to turn them off. He texted Zayn an hour ago asking if he wanted to hang out, but there wasn’t a response.

So, in slight defeat, he turns on the television. There’s some show on a couple selling a house and Louis settles back, sipping his tea. 

He remembers one night, possibly during the Where We Are tour, he’d gotten really sick. Not just ‘oh I have a cough and am feeling poorly bring me soup, please’ sick. But the kind of high running fever and can’t get up for anything kind of sick, when he slept for nearly an entire day in a cold sweat on his hotel bed.

But he can remember Harry being there. Coming in to check on him, making sure he was alright. Keeping Louis hydrated when he’d whine and complain and pinch Harry’s arm’s so he would stop trying to give him water and that infernal, horrible tasting medicine that the doctor insisted ‘would make him better’. Louis had told Harry at the time that it was a way for Harry to kill him, to which Harry shook his head.

“Not going to kill you,” he said, putting a gentle hand on Louis’ forehead.

It had been cold. But maybe that’s just because Louis’ fever had been so high and Harry’s so fucking warm all the time anyway that it felt colder, compared to the heat inside Louis’ body. 

He’d been glad Harry was there. And he knows Harry would be glad to have Louis there, maybe. He’s not sure. 

Louis shifts, not really able to get comfortable for some reason. He checks his phone, despite knowing it hasn’t gone off since the last time he’s checked it. Nothing. 

Not that he should’ve expected anything different. He unlocks it, typing in the four number code and opening up his email.

Surprisingly, there’s something there.

It’s from Julian. They still want him to come. And they want him to come within the next week. Louis swallows, reading it twice, just to double check.

But it’s there, clear as day, his invitation. Louis smacks his lips together loudly, because there’s no one there to tell him he can’t. 

This is a bad idea, probably. Some part of Louis twists inside his stomach, reminding him of what he’s saying if he does agree to go. And without giving the cautious part of himself any sort of second thought, Louis tells him he’ll be there. He will make sure to book his flight out sometime this weekend, and will let them know when he’ll be arriving. 

— 

“What are you doing,” Liam asks, like he has no idea. But he knows. One doesn’t have to be a mind reader when it comes to Louis Tomlinson, they just have to be Liam Payne.

Louis stares at him, on another FaceTime call in the middle of his kitchen.

“Have to start packing my fucking bags, don’t I?” Louis asks, picking up his phone.

Liam makes a quiet, unsure sound. “I don’t know if that’s —” 

“A good idea?” Louis cuts him off, opening the door to his bedroom. God, it’s all a mess, Louis thinks in slight horror, kicking at what looks to be a shirt on his floor. “Not your decision to make, Liam.”

There’s no argument, but Louis knows he wants to make one. “If you’re going to stay on the phone, the least you could do is say something, Payne,” Louis snaps.

“You haven’t spoken to him in…” Liam trails off. Louis bites back a response of _get on with it, then_. “What, five years?”

“Three and a half. Which basically adds up to four, if you’re rounding. You’ve always had a terrible memory,” Louis corrects. He’s standing in the middle of his room, with no prospect of anything to pack thus far. Life is looking bleak, in a lot of areas. “I have nothing to bring with me.”

“Probably because it’s all on the floor, unwashed,” Liam says, matter-of-factly.

Louis makes a face. “You don’t know me, Liam Payne.”

“Wouldn’t you _love_ that to be true,” Liam says. Like he somehow knows. Louis rolls his eyes, hands on his hips and nothing but an empty suitcase to show for his present mission of going to the ever-elusive city of Los Angeles. 

“I’m not going for him, Liam,” Louis adds, because it needs to said. Clarified.

A pause. One Louis knew was coming. “What are you going for, then,” Liam asks.

“For Ed. Help him with his album, and writing,” Louis tells him. As if this is going to somehow change Liam’s mind. But he can still the frown on his friend’s features. “He asked if I could come down and help, and I agreed.”

“And Harry has nothing to do with this,” Liam asks flatly.

Louis avoids looking at the screen; averts his eyes to his still in a terrible state room. “Not a thing.”

Liam sighs. Louis ignores it. 

“You’re a very unhelpful packer,” Louis says, but there’s no real heat behind it.

“I just want you to be sure about this.” Liam’s words hang in the air, firm and with no indication he’s going to take it back. Not that Louis expects him too.

“I’m sure,” Louis says, won’t repeat it twice. 

Liam nods. “I know who you should call, then.”

Louis smiles, a little, tapping the screen. If Liam were here it would be his forehead, because he’s something of a genius. Or Louis likes to think he is, anyways. “Always thankful to have you, Payno,” he tells him.

Liam shakes his head, unable to hide his big dumb smile Louis has grown so fond of over the years. “Get calling him then. I’ll check in before your flight.”

“Do they let you on a flight if you don’t have any luggage?” Louis asks. Liam laughs.

“Might think you’re a bit insane, but. I’m sure they’ll let you on,” Liam says. He frowns, “Pack your suitcase. You’re not going empty handed.”

Louis sighs dramatically. “Fine.” Liam gives him another look. Louis picks up a shirt, dropping it into the suitcase so Liam can see it. “/Fine/.”

Liam nods, satisfied. “Talk to you soon,” he promises.

“Yeah, yeah. Tell Soph I say hi,” Louis says before clicking the big red ‘end’ button. Before the screen’s even gone black he’s dialing another number, now stuffing whatever is left in his drawers and closet into his suitcase. 

It’s the first time Louis has outright ever lied to Liam. He’s not sure how he feels about it. But if the sick feeling in his stomach is anything to go by, it isn’t good.

— 

“When does your flight leave?” Zayn asks for the fifteenth time.

Or, something close to fifteen, Louis thinks. Might be on the edge of three times, he’s not sure. “Tomorrow morning. Eight o’clock,” he answers, leaning against the kitchen counter.

“And you’re going to Los Angeles because…” Zayn trails off, waiting for an answer. When Louis doesn’t give one, he sighs. “You have a sudden urge to go sun tanning?”

“No, idiot,” Louis says, shoving his shoulder lightly. 

Zayn raises his eyebrows, taking a drink of his beer. Louis exhales, knowing once he’s said it out loud he’ll regret even making the decision in the first place. “Going to LA. Helping someone out with their record there,” he says, once the silence has settled in the room.

He doesn’t answer right away, and Louis didn’t expect him to. So he just waits; arms crossed over his chest and licking his chapped lips. Something he probably won’t miss about the cold, London air. Though Louis doubts the air in California is any better.

“LA, as in —”

“Los Angeles, yes,” Louis finishes, beginning to feel the irritation get under his skin. “Liam made that face too, don’t make that face.”

Zayn blinks, looking as though he’s still processing. Is always processing things, Louis knows. But sometimes he just wants to crawl into Zayn’s head and know exactly what he’s thinking. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

It’s a fair question. Not one Louis wants to answer, but it’s a fair one at least. He hugs his arms around himself for a few moments, before releasing. “I mean, it’s not the worst idea I’ve ever had.”

This gets Zayn to snort at least, shaking his head. “You’ve had a lot of stupid fucking ideas, Lou,” Zayn reminds him.

Louis doesn’t argue. His tea’s gone cold beside him on the counter, untouched for a little over the time Zayn’s been here. “Yeah, s’what I meant. This isn’t the worst,” he says.

“You hate the heat. Always fucking complaining about how hot you are,” Zayn points out.

“Not fair. That one weekend we were in Australia and the bus' fucking air conditioning went I thought I was going out of my mind,” he defends.

Zayn still doesn’t seem convinced. “You hate airports.”

“Because we used to get mobbed there. No one will want to be seen with me since I haven’t showered in, like. Two weeks.”

Zayn makes a face. “Gross, Louis.”

Louis shrugs. “You’re not giving me a reason to go,” he says now, serious.

And Zayn, to his credit, doesn’t look away from him. With facial hair painted along his jawline, eyes focused and gaze unwavering he says, “You’ve already made up your mind. I can’t change it.”

Just like that, it’s done. No arguments. Nothing. “You still think it’s a bad idea,” Louis points out.

“Doesn’t matter what I think it is,” Zayn says simply.

“Why do you think it’s a bad idea,” Louis presses.

It reminds Louis of those nights, on the bus. When they were too tired to sleep and not awake enough to do anything except lay on the bed and watch Breaking Bad.

But those were the nights Zayn was most honest. Louis doesn’t want him to hold back. “You were pretty — you know.” Louis waits for him to continue. Zayn puts his bottle down. “Fucked up, for a while.”

“We’re all a bit fucked,” Louis says. “I just happened to be a little more than usual during all that.”

If Zayn is trying to look convinced he’s doing a really shitty job of it. “I just want you to be careful.”

“I _will_ be careful.”

“So you’re going for Ed?” Zayn asks.

It’s a way out. A way for Louis to admit something he doesn’t have to admit, because it’s not true. “Just going for the album. Me being fucked has nothing to do with this,” Louis says. Another clarification. Though it feels more like a lie, weighted and heavy on his tongue.

Zayn doesn’t push it anymore. Just follows Louis upstairs to put on shitty television and finish getting his things together for the morning.

—

To be fair, Zayn wasn’t wrong. Louis fucking _hates_ airports. Despises how they never seem to make sense, no matter how many fucking maps you read. Even more hates how there’s so many people seemingly crammed into one tiny fucking building, making you feel as though there’s people pressing in on every side.

Not to mention the fact that no matter where you are in one, there’s always, without a fucking doubt, a baby crying.

Which is why Louis is currently holding a very sugary latte and a very greasy breakfast sandwich, sitting outside his gate. There’s a few other people there already. A mother with her son, who’s playing his hand held game very loudly. An older couple sharing a chocolate croissant. And a younger woman with a backpack so large it looks to be twice her size.

Louis hates his life, maybe. 

He takes out his phone. _save me, liam_.

It takes a full ten minutes for Liam to respond. _Cannnnt. In another countrrrrry :(_

Louis sends back a _thank u for ur help. pray i don’t fling myself out of the window of this flight if the baby doesn’t stop crying_ , and doesn’t check his phone again when he boards.

There’s a small pang of regret and worry in his chest, but Louis ignores it. Pushes it down and tries to find his seat.

— 

The limited number of times Louis has actually been to Los Angeles, he hasn’t really enjoyed it. Sure, the clubs are nice. Not to mention the places they stayed at were impressive, to say the least, but nothing about the city itself sits right with him.

Maybe because it’s too hot. Possibly because it feels stuffy and over crowded. Also because this isn’t home. 

He gets his bag from baggage claim, hailing a cab and getting into the back seat. The sun’s bright. It’s early. Louis feels jetlagged and exhausted, pulling his sunglasses over his eyes. His phone brights up with a text from Liam and Zayn when he turns it on, not even bothering to read them.

The house he’s staying in is a way’s from the airport, a good half an hour where Louis sitting in the taxi, bored and tired and hungry. A fairly lethal combination for him when he’s running on such little sleep. He’s got a day to sleep and get settled until he starts in at the studio, apparently, if the email he’d gotten just before take off is anything to go by.

He pays the driver, thanking them and taking his bags up to the front door. It’s not a hotel, because Louis didn’t want to stay in one. Refused, actually, is probably the better term for it. Has spent a good portion of his life in them and would rather not have to deal with them for a long while. 

Louis isn’t sure he’s even going to unpack, putting his bag down onto his floor and falling onto one of the beds in the rooms upstairs. He’ll worry about it all tomorrow, maybe. If he wakes up sometime before he has to go to the studio it’ll be nothing short of a miracle.

—

If there are two things that don’t mix: it’s Louis and jet lag. Proven time and time again with continuous travel and finding himself withering away with each passing minute, Louis vows and promises himself countless times he’s never getting on a fucking plane again, ordering himself a bagel and another overly sugary caffeinated drink at the coffee shop near his house. 

He’s got bags under his eyes. By some sheer will and force he’d been able to stand up in the shower without falling asleep. Louis Tomlinson is a walking miracle, ladies and gentlemen, he deserves to be applauded.

The studio isn’t hard to find, on one of those streets in LA that seem to be never ending. But when he does end up opening the door, parking his rental car haphazardly on the side of the street, Louis is blissful to find the place is air conditioned. 

Perhaps feeling a bit out of place, he hears voices carrying down the hall, knocking on one of the doors. “You must be Louis,” a man he doesn’t know says. Louis nods, slowly.

“Yes,” he starts, now feeling rather self conscious of the half eaten bagel in his hand. “And you are?”

The man laughs, “I’m Ted, I work with Julian. Come in.”

Louis does, if only because there’s air conditioning and he can sit his poor tired self down onto one of the big, comfortable looking chairs. He probably should’ve dressed up more, not worn jean shorts and an old vans t shirt he’d found in his suitcase. But, there’s no turning back now, he thinks, shaking a few people’s hands, Julian in front of the sound board. A familiar face, at least. The usual formalities Louis has grown accustomed to over the many years of being in studio’s such as these.

“So where is he, then? This man I’ve heard so much about?” Louis jokes. 

Julian smirks, motioning to the big glass wall in front of Louis. He leans down, talking into the microphone, “Play one for him then, Ed.”

Louis catches sight of him; red hair and a guitar on his lap. An image he’s seen loads of times with Ed, so nothing’s really changed over the years. He leans back in his chair, waiting. “Make this worth my long suffering of travelling and jet lag, Ed,” Louis adds.

“No pressure, or anything,” Ed says flatly from the booth. Louis snorts. “This is Sunburn,” he finishes, beginning to easily strum on his guitar with an ease Louis has always found himself jealous of in other players when he himself cannot even carry a simple chord — no matter how many times Niall tried to teach him over the years.

There’s something that’s always been strangely familiar about Ed’s music. Like it’s something you’ve been missing and needing but haven’t realized it until he starts playing. 

When the song ends, Louis knows Julian is looking at him expectantly. He’s quiet for a few moments, lips pressed together.

“I mean, it wasn’t bad,” Louis says. Ed’s face breaks out into a grin and he laughs and something settles inside of Louis. Like this was a good decision, and he’d made the right one to be here. “But there’s some work to do.”

“That’s Louis code for you did a really good fucking job,” Julian adds. Louis would kick at him, but he’s too tired and jetlagged.

“Don’t let it get to your head,” Louis adds, pointing a finger at Ed, who merely nods. 

They’re off to a good start, then.

— 

The studio starts to feel like a second home, over the next couple of days. Surprisingly doesn’t take long. There’s take out boxes, shoes left under desks, and if Louis isn’t sleeping at his empty rental house he’s passed out on the soundboard between recording and producing and songwriting. 

It keeps Louis busy. Not that he has anything in particular to be busy _from_ , but that’s not really the point.

Julian eventually kicks him out of the studio one morning when Louis shows up after only three hours of sleep. “You can’t kick me out,” Louis argues, but Julian shakes his head.

“You’ve been here every fucking day, Louis. And as much as it’s appreciated, it’s too much. Ed sleeps more than you do,” Julian says. Louis scoffs, arms crossed over his chest.

“I sleep.” A weak argument, but he’ll stand by it. Though Julian refuses to hear any of it, gently pushing Louis toward the door.

“Let me clarify, then. You don’t sleep enough,” Julian says. “We’re just doing one more version of Autumn Leaves, then going home. You should go there.”

“This is my home now,” Louis says, frowning.

“Out. If I see you back here then bad, unspeakable things will happen to your tea bags,” he threatens.

Louis gapes at him. “You fucking —”

“Bye, Louis!” Julian calls, closing the door after him.

Louis is being treated like a child. He texts Zayn this who merely responds, _child gets what the child asks for :) x_ which, whatever. Louis doesn’t like Zayn anyway.

He sits in his car for the better part of twenty minutes, debating. He could go home to a suitcase not yet unpacked and a few hours of lying in his bed and not sleeping, or, he could do something else. 

Begrudgingly, Louis takes out his phone, sending a text. _where does harry even live._

 _Sent Uuuuu the address_ Liam responds almost right away. As if he’d known Louis was going to text him.

The way to Harry’s house takes a little over half an hour, when the big buildings turn into secluded, expensive homes. Maybe it’s not as bad here, Louis lets himself think where he taps the armrest of his seat absently.

Maybe he shouldn’t have come. 

He stops in front of the gate, eventually. Harry’s house, according to the navigating system. Louis stares over at it, unsure. He gets out of the car after a few minutes of feeling ridiculous just sitting in front of this house, getting out onto sidewalk and wincing at the bright sunlight.

Feels as though he’s at some kind of big, pivotal moment in his life, standing here. The gate looks too big. Can a gate be too big?

He’s not even sure he’s ever heard Harry mention he likes gates. Maybe Louis missed that. Wouldn’t be the first thing he’s missed, and it also wouldn’t be the last. The small bag he has feels too heavy and Louis feels so hopelessly out of place, standing here.

It’s locked, which doesn’t come as a surprise. Because of course Harry should keep it locked, he thinks with a sense of relief and anger. 

Louis can see a bit of the garden, through the gate. The garden’s got a small fountain in it, the sunlight bright against the water. Louis looks at it a moment, trying to decide if he can imagine Harry living here. His jacket feels too heavy.

There’s no answer when he tries to buzz in. Fuck, Louis doesn’t even know if he’s _here_. He buzzes again. Still nothing. “Motherfucker,” Louis mumbles, taking out his phone. He dials a number, listening to it ring.

No answer. He’s hitting a lot of dead ends. And, a man in defeat, Louis goes to sit on the sidewalk beside his car. He should probably go, before someone sees him and suspects him doing anything _other_ than waiting for Harry to get home.

If he even lives here.

Louis rubs a hand along his face, bracing both his elbows on his knees. It’s fucking hot, the sun beating down on his back through the abnormally large trees in Harry’s front yard.

He should probably go. Even if Harry does turn up it will look a little strange, for him to be here. What reason is he going to give? Oh, hey Harry, I was just in the neighbourhood and ran out of eggs at my flat. Care to share some?

That wouldn’t go over well. In no scenario can Louis see any of this going over well. Maybe Zayn was right. Maybe he’s still a little fucked over, from before. Came here for old times sake.

There’s someone running, down the street. On the otherwise empty street, it’s just the two of them. Louis cringes at the thought of willingly going out for a run, seeing them with shorts on and headphones in their ear. It’s too bright, so Louis can’t make out anything else about them. Except that they’ve got long hair and, oh.

Louis slowly stands, getting a strange feeling in his chest as the runner continues to approach. He’s got a hand on the handle of his car door and he should get in, get in and drive away right now.

“Louis?”

And he’s been caught. Found out. No real means of escape, with a very sweaty Harry Styles in front of him. Louis blinks, seeing the surprise on Harry’s features. 

“Erm. Hi,” he says awkwardly, waving.

Harry’s expression is unreadable, watching Louis. “What are you doing here?” he asks.

“I was, you know. Here, in LA. So I thought I’d just — come by. For a visit, or something.”

“Or something,” Harry repeats, raising his eyebrows.

“I can just go. This is weird, isn’t it? This is weird. I’m going to go,” Louis rambles, but Harry shakes his head. 

“No,” Harry says slowly, “I was just surprised, that’s all. You can come in, if you want.”

He’s being surprisingly… cheerful? Unsurprised? Louis isn’t sure. Possibly all of the above. 

“I mean, yeah, sure. If you, you know. Want me to come in,” Louis says.

“Course I do,” Harry says, buzzing something on the gate. It opens a few moments later, Louis following behind Harry wordlessly.

“You have a really nice gate,” Louis finally says.

Harry looks back at him, smiling a little so there’s a slight press of dimples into his cheek. Louis feels himself blush, blaming the too fucking hot Los Angeles sun for that as he runs a hand along the back of his neck. “Didn’t know you were big on gates,” Harry comments, opening his front door.

Louis toes off his shoes, looking around. It’s got a big foyer, more plants along on small tables throughout. He can see a pool in the backyard, the wood floor making a sound under Louis’ weight as he hears Harry moving around. It’s a few steps until he sees Harry in the kitchen, pushing some of his still long hair out of his forehead.

“What are you doing,” Louis asks, seeing Harry starting to work with a big machine he doesn’t want to get within steps of.

“Making a kale and beet smoothie,” Harry says simply, as if this is something he and Louis converse about every fucking morning.

Louis makes a face, leaning in the doorway. “That sounds awful.”

Harry frowns, getting out two glasses, “You haven’t even tried it yet.”

“Don’t have to to know,” Louis says.

Harry rolls his eyes, moving about and getting everything ready. Louis doesn’t make any more comments, hearing the blender making loud, mixing sort of sounds that Louis has no idea what’s going on. Harry pours it out between the two glasses, handing one to Louis wordlessly.

“I’m going to go shower, but I’ll be down in a few minutes,” he says.

Louis looks at his glass apprehensively. “Sure. I’ll just, you know. Be here.”

“Help yourself to whatever,” Harry says before going upstairs, his footsteps echoing and leaving Louis in his unfamiliar house, alone. 

Once he’s heard the water start running for the shower, Louis takes a sip of his smoothie. And, with a lot of self control, somehow finds a way to _not_ spit it back out all over Harry’s expensive looking countertop. 

He manages to swallow it, feeling very ill and very not sold on the whole kale and beet smoothie movement. God, he needs a hash brown. Or eggs. Or anything that isn’t blended with something green and red. Louis needs _grease_ and his tea.

Louis leaves the glass on the counter, wandering into the living room. Everything looks hardly touched; as if Harry had moved in a week ago and has yet to unpack and get everything inside. 

He didn’t always used to be like that, Louis thinks. Finds himself wondering what would have happened, to change that. He goes to sit on the couch, glancing back outside to the backyard once again. More flowers. More gardens.

Though he might have possibly figured out why Harry was so unsurprised, seeing Louis sitting on the sidewalk in front of his house. Louis has no idea how he hadn’t figured it out before, taking out his phone.

“Hello?” 

“What the fuck, Niall,” Louis spits, pushing open the door to Harry’s backyard. 

“Louis?” Niall asks, sounding as though he’s just woken up. Louis very much doesn’t care if he’s woken Niall from his precious sleep.

“You weren’t supposed to tell him I was _coming_ ,” Louis continues.

Niall sighs on the other line. “I had to,” he defends weakly. “You know how he gets with surprises.”

Louis pauses, knowing Niall’s got a point. He rubs a hand along his face tiredly. “I’m sure he could’ve handled it. He is an adult now, you know.”

Niall’s quiet, and Louis isn’t sure how he feels about it. He doesn’t think it’s good. “Are you there now?”

“Yeah. He just came back from a run. Made me a smoothie,” Louis says. Niall makes a small sound of what can be assumed disgust.

“Don’t drink it,” Niall says. “It’s for your best interest, honestly.”

“Yes, well, you could’ve warned me _before_ he put it into my hand,” Louis says.

“I’m sorry,” Niall apologizes. “I didn’t really give you a chance, by telling him.”

“Me a chance of what?” Louis asks.

There’s a pause, “I don’t know, just. Being there. Seeing him.”

Louis swallows. He sees something like a garden tucked away in the far corner. “Should go. Harry will be down soon,” he says.

“Text me later,” Niall says and with the promise of doing so, Louis hangs up.

By the time he’s stepped back inside Harry’s just making his way back downstairs. He’s wearing joggers and a t shirt, a towel wrapped around his neck and hair still wet. Louis takes in sharp breath. When he steps back into the kitchen Harry’s cleaning his glass in the sink.

“You didn’t touch your drink,” Harry says, not looking up.

Louis walks toward the counter, leaning against it, watching Harry with a muted curiosity. “I prefer my breakfast to be not blended,” Louis says simply.

Harry shakes his head, still not looking at Louis. When he doesn’t say anything, Louis taps a finger against his countertop, “Why don’t we go get some breakfast?”

“I have to do some yoga first,” Harry replies.

For a moment Louis isn’t quite sure he heard Harry correctly. “You just went for a run,” he points out, as if this little fact has escaped Harry in the last half an hour. 

He wonders briefly, if he’s overstepped. Isn’t sure how Harry’s going to react. Which is new for them; Louis almost always knows what Harry’s going to say, or what makes him shake his head and roll his eyes.

But all Louis can see is how his shoulders sag slightly, and how his hair curls at the bottom, how it always did. Imagines if the skin behind his ear is salty with sweat and soap.

“You can do yoga when we get back, come on,” Louis urges gently.

There’s still soap on Harry’s hands when he turns back to face Louis. His expression is pinched together, as if unsure. Louis doesn’t blame him. Can feel the way Harry hesitates before finally opening his mouth, “Just, let me get some things from upstairs.”

Louis feels like he’s won some sort of fight he wasn’t even sure he’d gotten himself into, nodding silently before Harry’s footsteps go back upstairs. He’s back in less than a few minutes, putting his phone into the pocket of his jeans he’d changed into, hair now pulled back.

Something inside Louis aches. He bites his lower lip. Louis reaches into his pocket, getting his keys out of his jacket when he sees Harry go back into the kitchen. There’s movement, things being moved around. 

“What are you doing,” Louis asks, seeing Harry bent down in front of an open cupboard.

“I have everything here. We can just have breakfast instead of going out, if you’re so against beet and kale,” Harry says stiffly.

Louis moves to sit at one of the stools, folding his hands in front of him. “I never said I was _against_ it,” he argues.

Harry gives him a look, taking out a frying pan and turning on his kettle. Louis’ smoothie stays untouched, as Harry goes over to take out some eggs.

“You have beans just lying about then?” Louis asks. Harry holds up a can he’s taken out of the pantry. “Apparently so,” Louis answers himself flatly.

When the water’s boiled Harry hands him a mug of tea, just how Louis likes it. Something inside of Louis’ chest tightens, knowing Harry hasn’t forgotten his tea. It’s probably not a big thing, though. So Louis shouldn’t make it one.

“How long have you been here?” Harry asks, hunched over the stovetop. 

Louis presses his lips together, exhaling. He’s so fucking tired. “Just a few weeks. Not too long.”

Harry nods. He’s always been the one comfortable in the kitchen. While Louis is always so terrified he’s going to burn the house down in a freak egg cooking accident, Harry’s the opposite. With careful movements and no sense of hesitation, holding the handle for the pan and running a hand through his hair.

“You enjoying it?” Harry asks, breaking the silence.

Louis’ grip tightens on his mug. Harry sounds mad. Distant. He hates it. Fucking _hates_ it.

“I mean. It’s not my favourite place,” Louis says slowly.

“So why are you here then?” Harry asks. Louis isn’t sure how to take his tone. 

It feels like they’re on the edge of something, though he’s not sure what. “I’m helping this guy with his album. He asked if I wanted to fly out and help him, and I agreed.”

Harry’s back is still to Louis, so he isn’t sure what his expression says. “Okay,” Harry replies.

Louis swallows, fidgeting with the handle of his mug. “How are you?”

For about half a minute Louis thinks Harry might pretend he didn’t hear that question. Ignore it. “Fine,” Harry says. 

“How are things with —” Louis is cut off, when a plate is put in front of him. 

“Your toast is still in the toaster,” Harry says, giving him a fork. “It’ll be done in a minute.”

“Thanks,” Louis says quietly, throat tight.

Harry’s got his own plate, Louis realizes after a moment. “What is that,” he asks.

Harry blinks up at him slowly. He looks tired, Louis thinks. The kind where his eyes are puffy and words come out slower. How he always was on tour. “Um, just. Egg whites and some fruit. Your smoothie and some rye bread,” Harry explains.

Louis makes a face. “That’s not breakfast,” he says. Harry doesn’t say anything, just stabs a piece of strawberry and puts it in his mouth.

They sit in silence. Louis isn’t sure if it’s uncomfortable or familiar. After a little while he looks over at Harry who’s beside him, nudging his calf gently with his foot.

“This is really good,” Louis says. 

Harry gives him something closest to a real, honest to God smile since Louis has stepped into his house. 

“Yeah? Better than Liam’s?” Harry asks, like a challenge.

“I’ll deny it if you ever ask me again,” Louis says, finishing off his plate. 

When Louis looks up again, Harry’s still staring at him. There’s a moment, and then Harry’s coughing into his fist, turning to look back down at his plate again. “Was nice to see you again,” Harry’s saying, and Louis feels his heart pound in his chest.

Wonders if Harry can hear it from where he’s sitting. “Yeah, um. You too,” Louis says, getting the hint. He pushes himself off the stool, leaving his plate on the counter and going toward the front door.

“I’m sure I’ll see you around,” Harry says, like LA is the fucking tiniest city in the whole fucking world.

Louis tightens his jaw and ignores the hurt settling in his chest. “Yeah. Probably at the local Tesco’s or something,” he says flatly, hand on the handle. 

Harry hesitates in the foyer, as if wanting to say something. Louis waits, gives him a few moments. And when Harry says nothing he exhales, holding back a laugh. “How long will you be here?” Harry asks finally.

“A little while. I’ll talk to you later,” Louis says as a final word before closing the door. 

He stays there for a moment, unmoving. With his forehead pressed against the wood and wishing for a reason to go back inside. 

Louis feels heavier when he gets back into his car, turning the key and hearing the engine start up. Grips the steering wheel tightly and drives off back to his house.

—

“I don’t see what’s so awful about egg whites,” Liam says one night when Louis calls him.

“When have you ever known Harry to go for a jog, do yoga, then have a beet and kale smoothie?” Louis asks, staring up at his ceiling.

“It doesn’t sound like he’s doing that poorly,” Liam says.

Louis groans, putting a hand over his face. “He didn’t let me ask him about his dad.”

“Maybe he just didn’t want to talk about it,” Liam says after a few moments. 

It’s not that. Louis glances over at his window. The sun’s not out today, instead replaced by dark clouds and rain for the better part of the day. Though LA is said to be all sunshine and happiness; Louis feels cheated.

“Should go, though. Need to text Niall and then get some sleep.”

“Sure, yeah. I’ll talk to you later,” Liam says, and Louis says one last goodbye before ending the call.

He probably won’t sleep. Just lay in bed like he does every other fucking night, tossing and turning without any real rest. 

Most likely why he’s so fucking exhausted all the time. He’s debating getting up and showering, when his phone buzzes again.

“Hello, Louis isn’t in right now. He’s trying to fucking sleep.”

“That’s a lie if I’ve ever heard one,” Niall’s voice comes from the other line. He sounds his usual, cheerful self, which settles something in Louis. 

Louis snorts. “You know me better than I know myself, Horan.”

“Painfully true, I’m afraid,” Niall says, not a hint of sympathy in his tone. 

“There are far worse fates, I would imagine,” Louis says.

Niall laughs, and it feels therapeutic almost, hearing it. “Is this the part where I say I do? Or do I wait a bit yet.”

“Wait until we’re in a fucking chapel, will you? Christ.”

Louis finds himself grinning, and is sure Niall’s doing the same. “Thought calling was better than texting.” Niall breaks the silence after a few moments.

“I would never turn down the opportunity to hear your voice, you know that,” Louis says, and it’s sincere. “Especially in this fucking city where I know no one.”

“Entirely untrue,” Niall says. Louis closes his eyes, bracing himself. “Doesn’t Shania Twain still live there? You’re her biggest fan, after all.”

“Oh, fuck off then,” Louis snaps with no real heat behind it, shaking his head. “Wasting all my international minutes on this call, you know.”

“Not a waste if it’s talking to me,” Niall says confidently.

“Are we going to keep this up or are you really going to tell me why you called.”

“Well, apart from hearing the crooning sound of your voice —”

“Out with it, Horan, or I swear —”

“Just wanted to see how you’re doing, mostly.”

Louis shifts on his bed. The ceiling fan is broken. Or, on its way to being broken. Looks a little more than halfway there. “I’m fine, yeah. Did Harry tell you about my visit, then?”

“No, he didn’t mention it,” Niall says, honest and open. Would never lie. How it’s always been with him. What you see is what you get, and Louis loves him unconditionally for it. “But I wouldn’t take that as a bad thing.”

“I’m not,” Louis says, swallowing. 

He’s lying, but thankfully Niall doesn’t call him out on it. Knows Louis better than to do that.

“Should go. Got an early day tomorrow,” Niall says, giving Louis a way out.

So he doesn’t have to talk about it, quite yet. Louis swallows the lump in his throat, phone still pressed to his ear and wishing it would be easy to just — say it. But he can’t. Not yet.

“Yeah, ‘course. Sorry to keep you up,” Louis says finally.

“Don’t apologize, you idiot,” Niall tells him.

They say their goodbyes, Louis ending the call and crossing his arms over his chest. It’s not that late yet, but somehow the exhaustion of what he usually feels at an early hour is beginning to set in. 

Maybe he should just sleep. And without giving it another thought Louis closes his eyes, and does just that.

— 

The next time Louis sees Harry, he’s in some magazine left at the studio. No one’s in yet, sometime after nine in the morning as Louis sips his tea, turning the front page.

They’re all the same, really, when it boils down to it. Louis has only seen a handful of these because of his sisters and, on occasion his mother, so it’s not like he’s a real expert on them. Not that he really wants to be.

_Harry Styles seen partying at another club!_

_In a recently large partying spree by the former pop star, he was seen leaving with a mystery blonde girl on his arm. Has he found love, or just another party pal?_

Party pal. Louis frowns at the page, closing it once again as he fiddles with something on the sound board. It’s not like that bothers him, because it doesn’t. 

Just doesn’t sit well, but it’s not a big deal. It’s his fucking life, Louis doesn’t have a say in it. And even if he did, what would he say? Hey, Harry, see you’ve been partying a lot. It’s not a crime. So he leaves with some girl; so _what_.

Louis grits his teeth, pressing a dent into the top of his to go cup with his thumb. He takes out his phone, unlocking it. 

Pretends he doesn’t open his texts, and then a message. Louis licks his lower lip, considering. Wonders what he would even fucking _say_ , if he followed through with it. Which he won’t, because there’s no point.

“The fuck are you doing here so early?” Ed’s voice catches Louis off-guard, jumping in his seat.

“Jesus fuck,” Louis breathes out, pocketing his phone. “Warn a man, would you? Gave me a fucking heart attack.”

But Ed just laughs, shoving Louis’ shoulder lightly. Makes everything he’s been thinking about feel smaller in his head, if that were at all possible.

“I’m here to help you with your album, in case you’ve forgotten,” Louis says sarcastically.

Ed snorts, taking out his guitar. There’s still a number of things they have to get done, but Louis doesn’t feel as though he could be fucked to do a single one of them today where he’s sitting.

“You alright?” Ed finally asks, breaking Louis from his head.

“Me?” Louis asks. Ed nods. “Yeah just, you know. Tired.”

Ed doesn’t look convinced. Well fuck that, Louis _is_ tired. “You’re shit at lying, you know.”

Louis smirks, leaning back in his chair. “And you’ve got an album to finish.”

The conversation, thankfully, doesn’t progress further than that as Ed goes into the recording booth. Things are pretty laid back, compared to what Louis is used to in the studio. It was all chaos and fast paced, so entirely different than this. 

Ed slides on his headphones, tuning his guitar. Louis doesn’t say anything, just listens.

He’s never really had a knack for guitar, always preferred the keys of a piano instead. So when Ed starts to play Louis feels the familiar twinge of jealousy, much as he does whenever Niall plucks a chord. Not in a bad way, not really, mostly in a way that makes Louis wonder if he’d stuck with it — how good would he be at it by now. 

Possibly regret, possibly something else. Louis doesn’t really feel like getting to the bottom of it, adjusting a few things on the sound board. 

They’re there for a few hours, mixing part of a song and Louis helping Ed finish writing another. The sun’s set by the time Louis gets a chance to look out the window, yawning into the back of his hand.

“You got any plans tonight?” Ed asks, headphones around his neck.

Louis shrugs, “Nothing. I’m a free man, Sheeran. This you asking me out?”

Julian’s gone for the weekend, entrusting the studio and album into Louis’ hand. Which, probably was a bad idea, now that Louis is thinking of it. 

“I’m going to this party tonight. If you wanted to come with.”

“A pity invite? Thank you, Ed, you really know how to make a guy feel special.”

“It’s just Harry’s, it’s not a big thing.”

Louis stiffens at the name, hoping Ed doesn’t notice. “Oh, right. Yeah.”

He picks at the hem of his jumper, tugging on a loose thread. Over the past couple of weeks Louis has somehow become accustomed to the warmer weather, wearing sweaters and jeans for the most part.

Who even is he.

“But it’s not a big thing.”

“No I’ll go,” Louis says quickly, “don’t know if I can handle another night in this studio, if I’m honest.”

Ed clasps his shoulder, briefly, closing his guitar case. “You have your car?” Louis nods. “Let’s get a move on, then. Harry hates his guests to be late.”

Louis rolls his eyes, standing up from the char. “That’s a fucking lie, but alright.”

Liam calls Louis on his way over, voice coming through the car speakers. “You alright?”

“Yeah, just driving.” Louis answers, hands on the wheel.

“Where are you going?” Liam asks.

“Just, nowhere.”

A pause. Then, “Louis.”

“Out.”

“Louis.”

“I’m going to Harry’s for a party, thing.”

Liam’s quiet. Never a good sign. “He invited you? That’s good. Means you two are talking again.”

There’s a diner off to the side of the road, the sign tilted and flickering in the dark, “I mean, kind of. Ed invited me.”

Liam clicks his tongue on the other line. “It’s good that you’re going.”

“Yeah,” Louis says in agreement. “I got your email, yesterday. I’ll get to it when I’m home.”

“That sounds fine,” Liam says. Louis wonders if he could fill the silence with what he’s really thinking, but doesn’t. “I should go, then. Let you go to your — party.”

“It’s not a big thing. I can talk for a bit,” Louis says, now feeling guilty.

“No, no, I was just seeing about the email. Sophia went up to bed a while ago so I think I’m going to go too.”

“Alright, well. Night Liam.”

“Night, Lou.”

The call disconnects a few minutes before Louis pulls up to Harry’s house, seeing Ed parking a little way’s away. Harry’s driveway is full, a few cars spilled out onto the streets. He turns off the engine, just sitting.

For whatever reason, he’s nervous. Louis taps his steering wheel, exhaling slowly. It’s already a little before eleven, so he shouldn’t really stay long.

Despite his better judgement, Louis gets out of the car. Pushes the door shut behind him, making his way up the driveway.

“Didn’t get lost?” Ed jokes, cigarette between his lips.

God. Louis could really use a cigarette.

“You kidding? I know this city like the back of my hand,” Louis says, hardly serious, with his hands in his pockets.

There’s music coming from inside, when Ed knocks on the door. He hasn’t lit the end of his cigarette, instead tucking it behind his ear when the door opens.

“Welcome, friends,” someone greets Louis doesn’t know. They’ve got the usual Harry look to them: tight jeans, boots, and a loose shirt.

“What’s up, man?” Ed asks, clasping his hand into his own. “George, this is Louis. Louis, this is George.”

“Shit,” George says, eyes widening and grinning. Louis knows that look. Knows exactly what’s coming next. “You’re from Harry’s band, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Louis answers, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Yeah that’s — that’s me.”

George nods, as if this is the most interesting thing he’s heard all night. He also looks high out of his fucking mind, so. It just might be the most interesting thing he’s heard all night, by the looks of things.

“So you like, knew Harry from a long time ago didn’t you?”

The question stings a lot more than Louis thought it would. Knew is, possibly, the best way to put it. Louis hasn’t a fucking clue who Harry is now. “Something like that. Being in a band with him for nearly a decade can do that, I reckon.”

Ed presses his lips together, not saying anything. Louis isn’t sure if he’s grateful for the silence, or would rather they start talking about something else to change the conversation.

Louis is so fucking tired. This entire house smells like beer and weed. He misses London, and his home.

“Fucking sick, dude. Big fan of your guys’ stuff, honestly.”

Louis holds back a laugh. “Yeah? Which song?”

He’s being a complete dick. But he’s no real reason to stop himself. “You know, that like. What makes you — something.”

“Beautiful,” Louis supplies flatly. 

Ed looks mildly uncomfortable, but still doesn’t say anything. “That one, yeah. Fucking sick.”

“Right, well. George, always happy to meet such a big fan, but I should go make my rounds.”

George, completely unaware in his drugged haze to realize Louis is being a complete shit, grins. “Come back to me later. We can do a cover of your song, if you want.”

“Sounds sick pal,” Louis says, giving Ed a look and final wave before he’s off.

The house looks different with all these people crammed into it. Unlike how Louis saw it the other day, when it had been just him and Harry. It had felt too big then — as if it too much for Harry to be in alone. But now, it feels almost too small.

He takes a beer, uncapping it and taking a sip. Why the fuck is he here, anyway, Louis thinks to himself harshly. This was a terrible idea. He should’ve just gone home and sat in his bed and not listened to Ed.

There’s no sign of Harry. It’s his own fucking house, and he’s nowhere to be found. 

With everyone crowding into the living room, Louis slips out into the backyard. The music is not as loud out here, people’s voices carrying out past the screen door as he walks over toward the garden. Or, if you could call it a garden. Mostly it’s signs for a few assorted vegetables and some dug up dirt.

But it’s something, Louis thinks as he crouches in front of it. Harry might’ve mentioned something about wanting to have a garden, but Louis can’t recall it anymore. All he’s got is a beer in his one hand, hardly touched, and near distant memories. 

From inside there’s a shout, a commotion following as Louis stares back toward the large windows. 

He still needs that fucking cigarette. Deciding that now is as good a time as any, Louis makes his way back through the house and to his car. They’re in the glove compartment, because he’s been trying to quit. But tonight’s different, Louis reasons with himself. 

The lighter’s in the cup holder for easy access, taking it out and standing somewhere in the driveway. The smell of the smoke calms Louis down almost immediately, breathing it out into the warm air.

After a little while he flicks the end of it, watching the ashes fall somewhere by his feet. It’s a big chilly now, supposed to rain again tomorrow.

Louis wonders when he cared more about the weather than he did anything else.

“Got a spare one?”

He turns, seeing Harry a few feet away. Even in the dark, Louis can see his cheeks are flushed. He’s drunk. Or close enough to being there.

“Didn’t know you smoked, Styles,” Louis says, handing one over. “What _would_ your mother say?”

Harry giggles, “She doesn’t have to know.” And, as if for emphasis, holds a finger up to his lips.

Louis shakes his head, watching him light the end of it. And for just a little while, it feels as if it was how it was, before. As if they somehow managed to find a way back to it.

“Quite some get together you have here,” Louis comments idly, trying to keep his tone neutral. 

Harry blinks at him, slow and tipsy. His talking is more drawn out than normal, “What, this? It’s nothing, really. Just a bunch of us that, you know. Hang out. Drink a bit.”

“Met your friend George,” Louis says, not even attempting to mask the disdain in his voice. “Quite the charmer, isn’t he?”

Harry winces. Louis feels a small pinch of regret, but doesn’t take it back. “We’re not all that close, George and I.”

A car drives past, engine loud and revving. Louis kicks at the ground, not particularly giving a fuck if it scuffs the ends of his shoes. 

“Right.” Louis settles on saying.

He can remember so clearly, years ago, right when they’d become a band. Louis was so enamoured with Harry, couldn’t get enough of watching him. He was so ridiculous and charming, with his dimples and low voice that it was so easy for him to capture anyone’s attention at the mere snap of his fingers.

Louis, in particular, was prey to that. And still finds himself drawn to Harry despite himself, knowing how bad of an idea it is. Like a moth to the fucking flame. Always been that way with Harry, so he couldn’t have expected that to change.

“So you’re working with Ed? You didn’t tell me that.”

Harry’s already looking at Louis when he glances over toward him, cigarette now finished as Louis presses his heel over it. “Tell you that when?”

“Last time you were here,” Harry says so easily.

“It didn’t really, come up.” Louis says.

He looks almost hurt, standing there. Though Louis cannot even to begin to fathom why that would be. 

“He’s good, though. Ed. Got a lot of talent.”

Harry nods, his own cigarette almost finished. “Been waiting to work with you, you know.”

Louis pauses. “Don’t know why that would be.”

And that’s when Harry smiles, something sad and not really a smile at all. More like an expertly disguised frown.

“I do,” Harry says, stepping on his own cigarette. “I’ll see you back in there?”

“Think I’m going to go home, actually. Get some sleep. Big day at the studio tomorrow,” Louis tells him.

It feels like there’s an entire fucking world of space between them where they’re standing, but neither of them make an effort to make it any smaller. 

Louis goes back out to his car, watching Harry’s house getting smaller in the rearview mirror.

— 

When his alarm goes off the next morning, Louis calls Julian and tells him he won’t be in today. Pulls the covers further over his chest, tasting his stale morning breath and shaking his head.

Doesn’t check his phone beyond that. Zayn and Liam both texted, but Louis doesn’t respond, instead getting up and going to take a shower. There’s no point in trying to fall back asleep; it’s a miracle he was able to get the three or four hours he did to begin with. 

The water’s hot, making his skin red as he scrubs away at it. The sun’s out, warm and coming through the window when he gets out of the bathroom, drying his hair. 

Leaves his phone when he goes to get breakfast, putting on some jeans and a shirt before making himself some cereal. His head feels foggy, all over the place. One thought goes one and breaks into a completely different one, which isn’t something Louis appreciates all that much.

Puts his bowl in the sink, tea nearly finished. With no studio to speak of for the next twenty four or so hours, he’s got to find something to do to keep himself occupied.

Decidedly keeping his phone on the bedside table, all he takes is his wallet and keys before he’s out the door — a little before ten, walking out to the car.

He can so clearly remember one night when him, Liam, and Zayn had gone downtown while doing a show — loading up into the car and going to any and all clubs that would open their doors to them. Feels like a fucking lifetime ago now, where he’s sitting in the driver’s seat.

The roads are busy, because when the fuck aren’t they in this fucking city, Louis gripping the steering wheel and following the signs to downtown Los Angeles, if the words are anything to go by. 

There’s no set plan, no agenda, nothing for him to follow. It’s freeing, the busy roads ahead and nothing else to think about it. And it’s here, with the radio loud and cars passing him as he goes along, does Louis maybe think he gets why Harry loves it here.

Something tugs at him at the thought, as if he somehow knows Harry and his entire thought process on packing all his things and getting the fuck out of London. 

Traffic is terrible, and it takes Louis a little over an hour to get into the fucking city because of it. There’s people lining the streets, long and seeming to go on forever, which is when he gets an idea. 

He’ll just get a tattoo, then. There’s a shit ton of shops around here, and Louis has only been to a handful of them, so he doesn’t really have a fucking clue which are good. Once he’s found a place to park he wishes he’d brought his phone so he could text Zayn and ask. 

They’re probably all terrible, so he’s just got to figure out which of them is less than the rest of them. 

Parking is fucking expensive, which Louis could have seen coming. But by the time he’s on the street that’s mostly forgotten, feeling slightly out of place as he steps out onto the sidewalk.

It’s not all foreign to him, not when he’s been here a handful of times. But nothing’s really familiar, cars honking and the sun hot and bright.

Good plan to go out here and get lost while also being terribly sunburnt, Louis thinks sarcastically to himself. Santa Monica beach isn’t too far off, he remembers, arms at his side as he walks along.

Should’ve brought a sweater, the wind picking up as Louis steps into what looks to be some sort of clothing shop. Browses along, shivering slightly and feeling a hole in his pocket where his phone would be. But it’s better, giving himself a day without the need to take it out and respond to people.

“Can I help you?” a girl asks, but Louis shakes his head.

“No, I’m alright. Thank you, though,” he tells her, and she gives him a smile before walking off down another aisle. Feels a bit awkward, wandering into all these shops with no intentions of buying anything.

It’s not like those small, beach town’s you see. LA is nothing like that, always busy and always moving, everyone tanned under the glowing sunlight.

Maybe that’s why he’s so miserable all the fucking time; the sun’s never this bright in London. Or perhaps it’s because there aren’t beaches like this, near his house. But it’s neither of those things, Louis thinks to himself. He’s in his ‘late twenties’, as it’s now labelled. God, Louis hates that. He’s not ready for his late twenties, isn’t even sure he’s one step close to anything like that. Because after that, comes thirty. Louis shivers at the mere thought.

He wants to blame Harry, is the thing. To say that why he’s so angry and bitter and resentful and tired is because it’s Harry’s fault, but it’s not.

Zayn was right, standing in his kitchen. He is fucked up; though he hasn’t taken any time to realize that. All of this, all of his unhappiness has been dumped onto this whole crisis with Harry he’s been having, but mostly what it all comes down is that Louis is fucked for reasons that aren’t Harry. And Louis has no idea what to do with that.

It’s like. There’s this weird crossroads in his life, post-band, and it’s not even close to what Louis thought it would be. Then again, it’s not like it isn’t for any of them from where Louis is standing. There’s no manual for this, no real reason, it’s just how life fucking is, apparently.

He gets himself some food a little while later, picking up a burger and some fries, eating them while walking. Eventually, he decides to go to and get a tattoo, seemingly having enough of wandering around downtown aimlessly.

There’s only one place Louis has been to when in LA, going with Liam and Zayn a couple of times. Getting back in his car it directs him there easily, pulling into the parking lot behind it.

Inside Louis can only see a handful of people, one girl behind the desk as he approaches. Upon telling her he wants something done she tells him it’ll be about a couple of hours, but with some talking and possibly bribery, though Louis will never admit to it, he gets himself in sooner than expected.

The room smells like alcohol, pictures hanging along the wall as he looks at them all. A little while later the artist comes in, and Louis finds his eyes trailing along the many tattoos across his skin.

“Know what you want, then?” the guy asks, sitting down next to him.

Louis nods, holding up his arm and pointing to the skin just a bit underneath his armpit and explaining what he wants. The guy says it’s easy enough, introduces himself as Daryl and instructs Louis to lay back in the chair.

“Bit forward, but I’ll take it,” Louis says, and Daryl at least gives him a snort for it.

It takes a little more than two hours to get it all finished, Louis sitting up and looking at where there’s clear wrap around his arm now.

By the time he gets back outside the sun’s setting, the feeling of the needle from the tattoo still pressing into his skin as Louis gets into the car.

But he’s not done, not yet. Still wants as much as this day to himself as he can get. And with that thought in mind he drives down toward Santa Monica beach. The drive is a fair bit, but Louis doesn’t really care all that much, flipping on the radio to some random station to keep his thoughts at bay.

It works, for the most part. 

The sand is still warm under his feet, taking off his shoes and holding them in his hand as Louis walks along — the water lapping up against his skin. Some people are still there, tossing balls and sitting in their chairs. 

Has always loved the sound of the water. When he was little, Louis can remember his mother taking him and his sisters up to a house every couple of summer’s, if they could afford it. Was just a two minute walk from the beach, and it would take lots of persuading to get Louis to leave it.

Could spend all day out there, his mother would say with a shake of her head. It’s not the same as the beaches here, where the sand is soft and the water going on for what looks to be ages, but Louis still finds himself drawn to it anyway.

Even when he gets home, when the sky’s dark and Louis practically has to drag his feet through the door, can he hear the sound of the waves ringing in his ears. Loud and almost as if they’re right here in his bedroom, turning off the light and going to sleep.

—

A couple of days later, something strange happens.

Louis goes about his day normally. Wakes up, gets ready, and heads to the studio where Julian and Ed arrive a little while later. Record, write, and record some more, write a bit while also getting some food. Recycle and repeat throughout the rest of the day, and that’s the jist of it. With a few people coming throughout, but that’s not a big thing. 

What’s different, then, is when Louis is helping Ed with a last recording of a song, the door opens. Louis turns to look, expecting Julian, but it’s not him.

It’s Harry.

A wave of something close to panic and terror grip at Louis’ chest, real and insistent. He swallows, thickly, not acknowledging it. He’s got stuff to do here, doesn’t have time to chat with Harry in his ridiculously patterned shirt.

Probably St. Laurent, because when isn’t it. 

“Uh, Lou?”

He looks up, hearing Ed’s voice, “Yeah?”

“That’s not the right track,” Ed informs him, tapping one of the headphones over his ear.

Louis blinks, muttering a quiet, “Shit,” before turning back to the soundboard. “Sorry, fuck. I’ll just — give me one second.”

When the music starts Ed doesn’t say anything else, and Louis goes back to whatever it was he was working on, before their visitor arrived. 

They’re halfway through until Ed winces, his voice coming through, “Can you maybe turn down the bass a bit?”

“Fuck, I’m sorry — I don’t know where my head’s at, sorry,” Louis says, adjusting the knob as requested.

He can feel Harry’s eyes on him, his gaze always so fucking noticeable, even though Louis can’t actually see him. As if it’s going right through him.

This continues on for a little while, and yeah, Louis is a little flustered, so fucking what. Ed doesn’t comment on it, and Harry’s not saying anything from his fucking corner of the room, so Louis hopes and prays it goes unnoticed.

Julian’s not coming in, no point when they’re only running through a handful of songs. By the time they’re done Harry’s still there, Ed going over to him while Louis packs up his things.

Ridiculous, he thinks to himself. Nothing better to do on a Friday afternoon than sit in some tiny, cramped studio and listen to someone play guitar?

Then again, Louis reminds himself, he’s doing the same thing.

So it’s surprising, then, when Ed leaves that Harry doesn’t go with him. Louis feels a chill run up his spine, not turning around where he’s staring resolutely at the sound board. As if it’s going to somehow magically give him advice, or way out of this place while avoiding needing to look in Harry’s direction.

Harry doesn’t say anything. Which leaves Louis feeling trapped, knowing he has to say something.

With his arms over his chest finally asks, “What do you want, then.”

There’s no verbal response. Instead, Harry stands, taking out what looks to be a pair of keys. Louis furrows his brows, staring at them as a few moments of silence pass between the two of them. 

And soon seeing the helmet beside Harry’s chair, Louis puts two and two together rather quickly. Unfair, Louis wants to tell him. He fucking _knows_ Louis has been wanting to ride his stupid fucking bike for ages, but has never really had the chance to do so. Until now.

“You only have one helmet.” 

Harry smiles, just a small upturn of his lips, “Got another one out there.”

“Seemed to have pretty high hopes I was going to say yes?” Louis asks, tilting his head to the side.

He just shrugs, the fucker. “Well you are, aren’t you?”

It’s a little after seven in the evening. Louis’ got the day off tomorrow, by Julian’s strict orders. Unbelievable he’s being threatened to be locked out of a fucking studio when he’s trying to do his job, honestly. 

Louis huffs out a breath, hating that he’s been found out so easily. “Are you a safe driver?”

Harry laughs, brief and airy. “I mean, I haven’t had anything truly terrible happen.”

“Comforting, thank you.” Louis says flatly.

With that decided, he follows Harry outside. Phone tucked into his pants and keys in another pocket, tries not to visibly freak out when Harry hands him his helmet.

“What’s the ratio of motorcycle accidents? Rough estimate. Give me any sort of number,” Louis asks.

Though truth be told, watching Harry actually mount his motorcycle is by far the most distracting thing Louis has seen in a while. Might be the closest thing he’s had to sex in months, watching the way Harry’s thighs squeeze the seat.

“I’m going to say very slim,” Harry answers, patting the space behind him.

Louis frowns, “If that’s supposed to make me feel better, it doesn’t.”

“Get on the bike,” Harry says patiently, both hands on the handlebars.

God, Louis hates how sexy he looks. Wearing his stupid shirt and stupid jacket and his stupid hair pulled back. Stupid. Very, very, stupid.

He might he half hard in his jeans, Louis isn’t sure; just prays and hopes with everything inside him Harry doesn’t notice if he is.

“Didn’t hear a please in there,” Louis mumbles, strapping on his helmet. It smells like a number of heads have worn this, and tries not to let himself wonder how many heads that could possibly have been.

“Get on the bike, Louis,” Harry says slowly, “please.”

“Fine,” Louis snaps in defeat, sitting behind him. Within seconds he can feel his face heat up, and not because of the fucking California sun beating down on them.

Harry doesn’t even start it, looking back at Louis with an amused expression on his face, sunglasses covering his eyes.

“Would be easier if you put your hands, you know. Around me. An easier way to make sure you actually stay on the bike.”

“Um, right, yeah. Of course. Sensible, I think. Also safe.”

Stopping himself from this embarrassing rant, he does as Harry suggests. Tentatively wraps his arms around Harry’s middle, unsure and knowing full well he’s over analyzing every fucking detail in his head.

Once they’re driving, Louis then realizes why Harry had been so insistent of his holding onto him or Louis would’ve fallen off from the word go.

He’s no idea where they’re going, didn’t think to ask. Just decided to get on the bike and go, which, now, he might be regretting. They could be going anywhere, the city and streets blurring past him as he tucks the side of his face against Harry’s shoulder. He smells like cologne, what little of it can be recognizable due to their current driving situation.

Louis tightens his arms around Harry, telling himself it’s to make sure he stays on. But a part of him, however big he doesn’t want to admit to, just wants to keep them like this for as long as possible. With no conversations, no staring at one another, just the large highway packed with cars and the two of them on their way to God knows where.

The sky is cloudy, breeze warm and pushing against Louis’ face. Harry doesn’t look back, and Louis doesn’t expect him too.

Will this make things how they were, so long ago? Or will it just leave them in that uncomfortable limbo, unsure of what they’re doing around one another. It could be a start, Louis tells himself, only a small bit of hope ringing true in it.

He’s no idea how long they’re on until Harry stops the motorcycle, at some place Louis doesn’t know. Then again, he doesn’t know a lot of places around here, looking over at him.

The sun’s out now, just barely coming through the clouds.

“Where are we, then,” Louis asks.

Judging by the time on his phone, they’d been driving for just a little over an hour. Would’ve been here less, probably, if there was less traffic. But less traffic in LA is something close to a fucking miracle.

“You haven’t been here yet?” Harry asks, as if Louis should come here every fucking weekend.

“No?” Louis responds, rubbing his arms. Should’ve brought a coat, if he’d known he was going to be driving a fucking hour away after work to the middle of nowhere.

“A few people took me here, when I first moved.”

“Charming.” Louis comments flatly. 

Harry continues, “It’s this like, these houses? Flats, whatever. They starting collapsing, sinking into the sand. So everyone moved out, and now this is what’s left.”

There’s a couple a little way’s off, walking along. Louis is looking at them when he says, “Nice view.”

Harry nods, as if expecting this answer. “Come here sometimes, if I can’t fucking think.”

Louis now looks over at him, lips pressed together and allowing himself a few moments to really see him. With the sun on his face, eyes looking darker in the light.

He looks tired; worn out. How he’s looked every time Louis has seen him since he got here. Though Louis isn’t sure Harry knows that; how fucking exhausted he appears.

“Get that,” Louis tells him. 

They walk a little bit, toward the edge of some sort of cliff — the remaining slab of concrete flat enough for them to sit on. “Sunken city,” Harry finally says, breaking the silence.

Louis shifts. “What,” he asks.

“That’s what this place is called,” Harry tells him. His eyes aren’t on Louis, they’re toward where the sun is setting.

God, he’s so striking. Like a punch to the fucking chest. Louis could write a thousand songs about him.

“It’s nice,” Louis says. Harry gives him a look of disbelief. “I mean it, come on now. Can see why you come here so much.”

“Not that often, if I’m honest,” Harry says. Louis wishes he would just /look at him/. “Only sometimes.”

“Sometimes,” Louis echoes, nodding.

They don’t talk a lot beyond that, just sitting and watching the rest of the sunset paint the horizon. 

_I’m sorry, about what happened to us_ Louis wants so badly to say, hands balled up into fists and resting on his thighs. But can’t bring himself to say it, doesn’t want to ruin what feels to be an almost perfect moment between them.

“You hungry?” Harry asks when the light’s almost gone from the sky, brushing his hands along his jeans.

“A bit, yeah,” Louis says. It’s a little after ten, but it feels so much later than that. 

“Come on then,” Harry says, giving Louis his helmet again.

He could get used to this, maybe. Getting on after Harry, hands returning to their usual place around Harry’s waist. 

The bike starts and they’re off. With the lights ahead of them and cars beside them on the highway, Louis tucks his face against Harry’s shoulder once again. A familiar place, he decides. One he could possibly get used to, if the fates allowed.

Eventually, Harry pulls into a burger joint. Louis doesn’t comment, just leaves his helmet in the usual spot before walking inside.

There’s not that many people around, a waitress directing them to a booth. 

“You come here often?” Louis asks, seeing a handful of waitresses eyeing them.

“Sometimes,” Harry answers, taking a drink of his water. Louis watches him swallow, watches his adam's apple bob in his throat, because he hates himself.

Their food comes quick enough, talking here and there about whatever conversation comes up. Which is mostly Ed’s album, though that doesn’t come as any sort of surprise. And Louis doesn’t mind; Harry’s got good insights and knows the in’s and out’s of the studio, so it’s easy for Louis to tell him about all of it. 

They pay their bills, leaving a tip on the table as they walk back out to the parking lot.

“You got any plans?” Harry asks, fiddling with his keys.

Louis pauses, shrugging. “Was going to go home and pass out.”

“You can come to mine, if you want,” Harry says after a few moments pass between them. 

Probably a bad idea. But Louis finds himself agreeing before he can think to say no, putting on his helmet and following the same routine once again.

Everything seems to slow down, the faster they go. Everything passing by too fast for Louis to really get a good look, but not fast enough for him to feel like he’s really getting lost in it.

He knows Harry’s street once they pull onto it, stomach feeling like it’s somehow tied itself into a million or so fucking knots.

But Harry doesn’t seem to notice, parking his bike and getting off. Louis follows suit, handing over his helmet and staring up at the big door. It feels bigger than last time he was here, if that were at all possible. Follows Harry inside and awkwardly stands in the living room, crossing his arms over his chest. 

“You want one of the rooms upstairs?” Harry asks, walking out of the kitchen with a steaming mug in his hands.

Wordlessly he hands it to Louis, who asks, “I’m alright on the couch.”

Harry doesn’t push it, just goes upstairs and leaving Louis with the mug. It’s tea. Smells like Yorkshire. 

There’s movement upstairs, and Louis finds himself wondering if he should even be staying when Harry hands him a small stack of what looks to be sheets. “If you get cold there’s more in the closet, upstairs.”

Louis nods, putting them onto one of the couch cushions. Harry’s gone by the time he looks up, making his way into kitchen, where Louis presumes he is.

Harry’s back is to him, shuffling around. “What are you having, then. Some purified coconut water?” Louis asks.

There’s a laugh, delayed and soft. “No. Just some tea.”

Louis hums, leaning against the counter. “Didn’t know they had Yorkshire in LA, to be honest.”

“Mum sent me some, a while back,” Harry says.

There’s a silence that follows, drawn out but not awkward. Just lets Harry move around, getting it altogether. Louis bites his tongue from the judgemental statement when he watches Harry put his usual touch of milk into his mug, walking back into the living room.

Harry follows, sitting beside Louis on the couch. There’s a cushion’s worth of space between them, and neither of them make any movements.

“How are you, then.” Louis’ question hangs in the air a little while.

He hears Harry sigh, leaning forward. The television’s on, playing some home renovations show Louis doesn’t know. “I’m fine.” Harry says simply.

But that can’t be the end of that discussion, there’s no fucking way. “How are you doing really,” Louis presses, voice low and gentle.

“I’m fine, Lou. Really,” Harry insists. 

And that’s it. Louis looks at him a moment, and they spend the rest of the evening like that. 

It’s nice, having someone around. So different than what Louis is used to, in his big house in London.

He doesn’t say this; but doesn’t really feel like he has too. Knows Harry feels it too.

— 

Louis wakes up at half eight, hearing the door close. He sits up slowly, blinking awake in the bright sunlight. He’d passed out sometime around three in the morning last night, head pounding and desperately needing a shower and a cup of tea.

But, assuming it was Harry who just left, Louis reckons he won’t be getting any tea unless he decides to be adventurous in a kitchen he doesn’t know. 

He stays on the couch for a few minutes, the sheets keeping him warm as he tries to close his eyes. But he can’t fucking sleep, not anymore, and instead pushes himself up to get a cigarette from his jacket pocket.

Keeps the door open when he steps out into the fucking hot sun, lighting the end of his cigarette from between his lips. Eases a bit of the tension in his head by the time he’s finished it, stomping on the end of it like a final word.

Once back inside Louis settles on taking a shower, his car left at the studio and no real way to get himself home.

There’s a bathroom in the upstairs hallway, looking untouched. Upon opening a cupboard beside the sink Louis finds towels, taking one out and turning on the shower.

At least this he knows, better than any part of Harry’s large house. 

Once he’s all washed, thanks to whoever’s shampoo and soap were left in the shower, Louis sees Harry’s shoes by the front door.

“Morning,” Louis mumbles tiredly, running a hand through his still damp hair. “Where were you?”

Harry looks up from where he’s holding a mug, reading what looks to be a daily newspaper, “Had to run and get some food.”

“And a newspaper,” Louis says. Before he can go to find a mug, Harry slides one toward him.

Smells like coffee. Dark and black, much like Louis’ soul. “Bless you,” he says, cupping both hands around it.

Breakfast comes a little while later, fruit and some pancakes. They’re from a box, which Harry ridiculously apologizes for, but Louis doesn’t really care. So long as it’s food, he’s got no complaints to give.

“Missed this,” Louis says while him and Harry are eating at the breakfast bar in the kitchen, the morning LA sun coming through the windows.

Harry looks at him, “Missed what?”

“Dunno, just like. Being in a house, not just somewhere I’m staying. Makes me less homesick,” Louis explains, feeling slightly childish for even feeling this way.

“I have something like twelve fucking rooms in this house,” Harry starts, “you can stay in one of them, if you want.”

And without giving it a second thought, Louis agrees.

— 

Liam tells him it’s a bad idea. Zayn and Niall don’t say what they think of it, but Louis knows without them telling him.

Regardless, all his stuff comes over in the next week or so. And Louis finds himself settling in, actually unpacking his suitcase instead of leaving it in a corner of the room.

Things at the studio are busy, the album nearly entire recorded. From there there’s producing and mixing, but Louis knows most of that already, so it’s not a huge deal.

He finds Harry in the living room one night when he gets in, a little before midnight. Louis is on the verge of exhaustion — feeling as though he could fall over onto the floor at any given moment. 

“Haz?” he calls out.

“Watching tv,” Harry says back.

Louis smirks knowingly, putting down his bag. “Better not be Bake Off again.”

“Why? You like it. The one show we actually agree on,” Harry says when Louis finally catches sight of him. Wearing his ridiculous Packers beanie, t shirt and shorts.

“I never said that out loud, you have no proof,” Louis says, indigent. 

Harry snorts, “Come join me then, if you want.”

“No point, I’d be asleep in five minutes,” Louis says, yawning into the back of his hand. “Going to shower and get to bed, I think. Got to be there early again tomorrow.”

Harry’s expression doesn’t change, as he nods. “See you tomorrow sometime, then.”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Louis says. “Night, Harry.”

“Night, Lou.”

He settles on taking a shower before crawling into bed, turning on the tap and stepping in. There’s steam and warmth and Louis swears he’s somewhere close to heaven as he stands under the spray for a little while.

Despite his better judgement Louis jerks himself off, thumbing the tip of his own cock and leaning his forehead against the tiled wall as he comes, spilling down his legs.

And if he thinks of Harry before the stars burst onto his vision, so be it. It’s not like he’ll know anyway.

—

They fall into a pattern so easily, like it’s how they could’ve had it all along.

 _Can you pick up some bread on the way home? :)_ Louis gets a text when he’s leaving the studio one evening, a little after six. _Aaaaand some milk. Possibly fruit, if you want._

 _what fruit we don’t eat any fruit in this house_ Louis sends, starting his car.

He pulls into a grocery store despite himself, parking in a space and seeing what Harry replied with. _Anything you want. Oranges, apples, bananas. Go crazy._

 _sounds absolutely dreadful_. Louis gets out, making his way toward the doors and taking a basket with him as he goes.

Feels strangely domestic, but not quite yet there. Walks through the aisles and picks out the items from the vague list Harry had given him, putting them into the basket tucked under his arm.

Can recall one night, him Liam and Harry had done a grocery store one night, while on tour. It wasn’t anything like this, they were loud and ridiculous, practically running through the store and throwing whatever looked good into their cart.

When Louis was eighteen, and nothing was the same as it is now. He takes a case of beer, because why the fuck not. 

The lady rings him through, and Louis is back at the house within the next twenty or so minutes.

“Did you get fruit,” is Harry’s first question.

“Hi to you too, thanks,” Louis says flatly, putting the bags onto the table. “I got apples. And those weird, green ones that kind of look like apples.”

“Pears?” Harry asks, raising an amused eyebrow.

Louis flicks his arm, “Yeah, those. Be grateful.”

“I’m so very grateful, you’ve no idea,” Harry says, mock serious. Louis rolls his eyes.

“Saved me some dinner?” Louis asks, seeing a wrapped plate in the fridge.

“Just some chicken and crisps,” Harry says, shrugging.

“You shouldn’t have,” Louis says, sarcastic.

“I know,” comes Harry’s response.

He’s outside by the time Louis is done dinner. He’d had one beer, onto his second one as he steps out the large, sliding glass doors. 

Harry’s in a chair, book in his hands. Louis squints his eyes, giving up trying to read the title after a few moments.

“Ed’s single is being released in a few weeks. And we’re having that big party — thing,” Harry starts off, “are you coming?”

Louis blinks, sitting on the edge of the wooden deck. He takes a sip of his beer. A little warm, but does the trick for the most part. “I mean, I was thinking about it.”

“Probably won’t be anything too big. Just a small get together.”

“Just say if it’s a fucking party,” Louis says, laughing. “Get together makes it sound like we’re all sitting around a table with fancy wine and cheese.”

“You want to come?”

Louis takes in a deep breath, considering. “Yeah, sure. Why not.”

Nothing can touch them now. Or, that’s what Louis wants to naively believe, anyway. Not when the sun’s warm on their skin and they’re out here like this, just the two of them.

— 

It’s sometime past three in the morning when Louis wakes up, hearing something downstairs a few nights later. The light’s on in the kitchen, and when he looks inside Harry’s at the counter, looking like he hasn’t slept since Louis went up to bed a little after eleven.

“What are you doing,” Louis asks, leaning in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest. 

“Writing,” Harry says, not looking up where he’s got a pen between his teeth.

Louis hesitates, before taking a step into the room. Harry doesn’t comment, doesn’t even move as Louis goes to sit beside him. 

“A song?” Louis asks, glancing at the page of the notebook in front of him.

Harry nods, chewing a bit on his pen. A habit Louis has never particularly liked, but doesn’t comment on. Curls his hand around the edge of the counter, as if waiting. 

“Yeah, for Ed’s album,” Harry supplies a few minutes later. “Don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, though.”

“Sure you know,” Louis encourages, voice gentle. “You’ve done this loads of times before.”

“Haven’t done it in a few months,” Harry admits.

“Like riding a bike, innit. You’re just getting back on,” Louis says, nudging Harry’s limp hand beside Louis’. 

They sit like that for a while, Louis isn’t sure how long. Just knows that the second time he yawns into his hand Harry shifts, making a soft, frustrated sound.

“Show me what you have, then, if you’re going to be like that,” Louis says.

Harry, looking as though he doesn’t particularly like this idea, moves the notebook toward him. Louis picks it up gingerly, reading it over. 

_we’re back at the start_ , _i never know what to do until you come around_ , _you’re the light where everything else is dark_.

“What’s so bad about this,” Louis asks. Harry shrugs. “It’s good, Harry.”

“Don’t know what else to do with it,” Harry says.

“Well, lucky for you, that’s what I can help with,” Louis says, flashing him a smile. 

“Get on with it, then,” Harry says, but there’s no real heat behind it. 

And Louis, accepting Harry’s challenge, takes the pen from his lips and turns back to the page.

— 

Louis can remember where he was when writing any and every song. Most of them are in studio’s or hotel rooms, other times his house. A few where he’d been outside with Liam and Jamie, among others.

He can hardly remember when his mother’s birthday is, but he can remember where he was when writing all his songs. Like selective memory, or whatever.

Harry’s song for Ed’s album isn’t done yet, but then again neither is basically nothing else. Which could be a comfort, but mostly it leaves Louis feeling stressed. 

He comes with to the studio occasionally, Harry, tagging along and helping out where he can. If it’s recording or vocals or whatever, Louis is grateful whatever way that he’s there. Makes Louis feel as though his load is a little less, having him around.

It’s the three of them one night, a little while after Julian’s gone home. They’d gotten pizza, the box open and a few pieces left as Louis leans back in his chair.

Ed’s singing, Harry gone to get some coffee, and all Louis can do is listen with his headphones on — making sure everything’s coming together. They might get out of here before midnight, which would be something close to a miracle, considering how this week has gone.

He called his mom the other night, hearing about the twins and the rest of the girls. She had asked him a few times when he’d be coming home, too which Louis wasn’t sure he could really give her a straight answer.

The thing is, he _wants_ to come home. Louis just isn’t sure he can leave quite yet.

Because of the album, he tells himself. He’s only here because of the album.

“What’d you get me,” Louis asks as soon as Harry comes through the door holding a tray of three cups.

“Something with a lot of sugar,” Harry says, handing over the one with Louis’ name scribbled along the side. 

“Good,” Louis tells him in approval, taking a sip. 

“Heard you’re coming with next week,” Ed comments, recording abandoned for the sake of coffee.

Louis can’t say he blames him. He does, however, pause at Ed’s question, “What?”

“You know, to that single release party,” Ed clarifies.

“Oh, right. That,” Louis says. Beside him he can see Harry’s shoulders slump. “Yeah, said I’d go. You’ll be there, right?”

Ed nods. A beat passes between the three of them until they start discussing when to record Harry’s song, the topic of the party no longer being had, which relieves something in Louis.

When they get home a little while later, Louis doesn’t even bother moving his bags from by the front door, going to sit on the couch in the living room. Moments later Harry’s there, handing him a bottle of beer.

“You’re a fucking mind reader,” Louis tells him. Harry snorts, sitting beside him. 

“I’ve tried to master the skill. Think I’m getting there,” Harry says, tipping his head back.

The movement exposes the column of his throat, but Louis doesn’t look at that. Just turns his head to where the television’s playing now, the beer nice and cold in his hand. 

Harry’s got what looks to be some sort of vodka tonic in his hand. The usual, Louis thinks briefly to himself. 

“You coming in Thursday? To the studio?” Louis finally settles on asking, fidgeting with the label on his beer.

It takes a few moments for Harry to respond, “Think so, yeah. Got some stuff to do in the morning but then I’m free.”

Louis nods. Harry’s a bit far from him, but he can still feel the heat radiating off him. Is always so fucking warm, the one thing constant about him. Makes him have this unbelievable urge to reach over and brush his skin, or any part of him, just to see. To feel the warmth, if only for a moment.

But he doesn’t. Instead, Louis keeps his eyes focused ahead. And for just a few moments, lets himself wonder what the fuck Harry could be thinking about right now.

“Was going to go around shopping tomorrow. You can come, if you want.”

“Only if we take my car,” Louis says.

“Fine,” Harry agrees. 

And with that settled, Louis goes back to drinking his beer.

— 

By no surprise, they go to Rodeo drive. The sun’s out and it’s by every means a picturesque perfect day, but something inside Louis feels heavy.

Somewhere along the way Louis gets some frozen yogurt, putting a spoonful into his mouth as they walk through stores he can’t even remember the names of. There’s people gawking at Harry, as per the usual, a few asking him and Harry for their picture to be taken. Not how it used to be, by any means. Which is something of a relief, Louis thinks as Harry holds up a pair of boots.

“No way,” Louis says simply.

Harry makes a face, “Why not.”

“S’not like you have to listen to me,” Louis adds. 

Harry rolls his eyes, looking at the rest of the display. His phone goes off a few moments later, taking the call. Louis continues to browse, knowing full well he won’t purchase anything in this store, hearing Harry talking behind him. Judging by the way he’s talking, laughing every couple of seconds, Louis would make an educated guess it’s Nick on the other line.

He finishes up his food, tossing it into the nearest trash bin. In his short sleeves and shorts he’s feeling too hot, running a hand through his hair and wandering around. 

“Sorry,” Harry says, approaching him.

“Don’t be,” Louis tells him, shaking his head. 

They get some food a little while later, a few items bought between them. And it’s like, Louis can hardly remember what the past number of years were, without having Harry around. As if it’s filled some strange sort of void Louis didn’t even know existed until he saw him again.

And sometimes, if the moment is quiet and neither of them are saying anything, Louis lets himself imagine what it would be like to curl his hand around Harry’s. But the moment always passes and Louis always forces himself to think about something else.

Ed’s texted Louis about some stuff they need to go over tomorrow, but nothing that needs immediate attention. 

“How are things back home?” Harry asks as they walk back to Louis’ car, a few bags tucked under his arm.

Louis blinks, looking at him for a moment. “It’s, you know. The same mostly. Not much different than how it’s always been.”

Harry doesn’t ask anything else, just gets into the passenger’s seat while Louis drives them back to his house.

— 

The day of the party Louis spends most of it in the studio and no, it’s not because he’s avoiding this entire event he agreed on going too, thanks, he’s just very busy.

 _Where are you?_ Harry texts a little after seven.

Louis glares at his phone, unmoving. Everyone else is gone, leaving him by himself and wondering if going is even a good idea.

_at the studioooooooo. why?_

_I can come get you in a bit, to go to the party._

_im not getting on your bike again, harold. not after you nearly hitting that cat last week._

_I’ll be driving a car, mum_ Harry sends, along with an unhappy emoji.

_alright, alright. get some clothes for me? a jacket and some nice jeans, i don’t know. what does one wear to these things anyway_

_Why don’t you just meet me at the house, and we’ll go from there._

_fine._

He’s like a child not getting his way, packing up his things and going out to his car. They’re going to be late at the rate Louis is going, but that doesn’t really come at any sort of surprise. 

By the time he’s in the door it’s nearly eight — fuck traffic, honestly — and the whole ordeal starts at eight.

“You’re late,” Harry says, an amused smile on his features.

“Fuck off,” Louis says, flicking his arm as he walks up the stairs. “Give me five minutes.”

“You’ve got less than two,” Harry calls back.

Louis spends a few moments going through his clothes, cursing under his breath the entire time. Eventually he settles on black skinnies, a denim jacket and button up shirt. 

“Let’s get this over with,” Louis says to Harry, following him out to his car. 

They drive a little more than half an hour, to some place Louis doesn’t know. It’s a big building, glass and very expensive looking.

“Fucking huge,” Louis says.

Harry nods, getting out. 

Louis eyes it warily, getting out after Harry. He hands his keys to a valet who drives off with the car, Harry already starting inside. The music is loud and there’s a number of people Louis doesn’t know as he walks inside, no coat to check in.

He spots Julian a little way’s away, Harry already finding Ed somewhere near the bar. Which, the bar, Louis realizes in relief, he can get a fucking beer.

The bartender slides one over to him, cap already off and Louis takes a drink from it. Technically Harry’s driving home, according to Harry, but Louis still only plans on nursing one or two beers tonight — depending how it all goes. Though judging on how tonight looks so far, it’s not going to be all that promising.

Julian pulls into a small group of people, introducing Louis to some people. They talk for a little while, mostly on Ed’s album and how it’s all going. And Louis chats, forces laughter every once in a while and engages, for the most part. 

There’s trays of food being brought around, Louis taking the occasional thing or two from it, stuffing it into his mouth. Gives him a way out of not saying a whole lot, excusing himself a little while later again.

Maybe he’s forcing himself to feel like an outsider, standing there. They’re near the water, just outside the windows and past the parking lot. Louis is itching for a smoke by the time he gets to the bathroom, Ed stopping him on his way out.

“Pretty fucking sick, right?” Ed says, grin wide.

Louis nods, glancing around, “Yeah, man. It’s great.”

“You alright?” Ed asks, his face going a bit serious.

God, he’s gone and even ruined Ed’s night. Wonderful, Louis, you’re a star citizen, ruining a single release party for the artist himself. “Me? I’m fine. Great, even. Go off and — mingle, all that.”

Ed smirks, the worry seemingly gone from his face. “I’ll come find you in a bit,” he promises. But he might be drunk already, so Louis doesn’t trust it.

“‘Course,” Louis tells him, clasping Ed’s shoulder briefly. 

The speeches are next. Louis stands next to Julian during them, not really paying that close of attention to them. Still no sign of Harry. 

He’s listening to Ed talk now, or more so slur, if everyone’s being honest, when Louis finally sees him. At the bar, talking to some girl Louis doesn’t know. Something inside of him clenches so tight Louis isn’t sure he’s breathing, watching them. Seeing the way she smiles up at him, as if she’s got something to prove.

Louis’ grip is so tight on his beer he’s surprise it hasn’t completely shattered in his hand. But he keeps his jaw set and eyes straight ahead, and tells himself not to think about it.

What he needs is a fucking smoke. Not an opportunity to critique Harry on his flirting skills. Because it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t fucking _matter_. They were bandmates, they lived together, then they didn’t speak for four fucking years, and now Louis is here. It doesn’t mean anything. Not a fucking thing, apparently, where he’s standing. Just that he’s here for a fucking record he’s helping put together, but nothing more. Nothing to Harry except someone to fill one of his precious, expensive guest rooms. 

And that fucking hurts. Stings something real and painful, deep in Louis’ chest. 

So, when the speeches are finished and everyone’s applause has faded, Louis slips out the front door. Has a pack of cigarettes in his pocket, but no lighter.

“Fucking shit,” Louis mumbles, about ready to hit his head against a fucking wall.

“Hey, man,” comes a voice Louis doesn’t know. He glances up, seeing what looks to be a group of valet’s staring at him.

Great, Louis thinks to himself sarcastically. He’s about to get ridiculed for his ridiculous outfit out here, without a fucking smoke to combat it with. “Hi,” Louis responds awkwardly, blinking at them. 

“You need a lighter?” the guy asks. Louis reads his name tag: Lucas.

“Yeah, actually,” Louis tells him, taking a slow step in his direction.

“Hold up your cigarette then,” Lucas tells him, and Louis does as he’s instructed.

“Bit bossy,” Louis jokes, and Lucas laughs. “Thanks, though.”

“Anytime,” Lucas says with a shrug. “You enjoying yourself in there?”

The rest of them are still staring at Louis, as if gaging how to react to him. Louis smirks, exhaling a mouthful of smoke, “You know, a bit stuffy. Crowded, too.”

“Looks that way,” Lucas says. He goes through the handful of them: Eric, Dan, and Jason. Apparently been working at this place for nearly two years, now.

“And you like it?” Louis asks, tapping his cigarette so some of the ashes fall off the tip.

He grins, hearing the rest of them scoff. “Hardly,” one of them, Eric, says.

“Pays the bills, though,” Lucas says, and Louis nods.

“Get that, yeah,” Louis says in agreement.

“Gives us a nice view to watch the games, though,” Dan speaks up, motioning toward the bar. 

Louis glances over, seeing a game of football on. “Who do you cheer for,” he asks, though he’s already sure of the answer. “LA Galaxy,” Jason answers easily.

Louis makes a face, clearly one out of disgust. “Gotta go for Donnie mate, come on now.”

All of them laugh, and Louis so predictably rolls his eyes. When he looks up, Lucas is already looking at him, making his cheeks flush.

“Personally, I’m a Sounders fan,” Lucas cuts in.

There’s a pause, followed by Louis making a small sound of disapproval. “Marginally better than Galaxy, I suppose.”

“Marginally?” Lucas repeats, raising his eyebrows. If Louis didn’t know any better, he’d say Lucas was hitting on him.

Does he know any better? Probably not. So, Louis will play along. It’s considered flattery, is it not, when someone hits on you? Why not let himself enjoy it a little? Lucas is fit, anyway, Louis silently reasons with himself.

Looking at him takes away the sting in his chest Harry gives him.

“Yes, marginally. You all need to be educated on football teams,” Louis says, attempting to make his voice firm.

“Football,” Jason repeats, mocking Louis’ accent. “So posh.”

“I can still kick your ass,” Louis jokes, grinning. The rest of them laugh. Makes something like pride well in Louis’ chest.

Decidedly, he feels much more at home out here smoking than he does for a minute inside those doors. Which is why he figures going back inside wouldn’t do much good, instead, arguing about football teams with a bunch of guys he’s only just met a far more agreeable option. 

Occasionally, someone will come out requesting to have their car brought up, but for the most part it’s just them. Louis can, possibly, see why this job would be something to be had.

A little while later, after the argument of football teams has died down, Louis feels Lucas press into his side very noticeably. “You know I get my break soon,” he tells Louis, voice low, so as to not be overheard.

Louis shivers, trying to keep himself composed. Fuck, alright them, he thinks to himself in a flutter of thoughts. “Is this supposed to be a proposition?”

“I mean, if you want it to be.” 

Everything inside Louis is tell him this is a bad idea, for many reasons, but Louis can’t bring himself to particularly give a fuck about any of them. He hasn’t been laid in God knows how long and Lucas is staring at him as if he’s ready to suck Louis off right here and now in the parking lot, so who is Louis to say no?

“Yeah, alright,” Louis says, nodding toward the small booth. “Can go to my car, if you want.”

“What, you didn’t want to put on a show out here?” Lucas asks, wiggling his eyebrows. But before Louis can tell him how absolutely terrible that idea, Lucas is already reaching for the key, Louis telling him which car it is.

They’ve not yet made it into the back seat fully, when Lucas kisses him. It’s demanding and wet heat that it takes a large amount of restraint for Louis not to moan into it, pressing back and closing the door behind them.

“You’re, like, really fucking hot,” Lucas pants out as Louis feels his back hit the bottom of the seat.

Louis grins up at him, smirking, “I am, aren’t I?”

Lucas leans down, sucking a bit of the skin at Louis’ neck. He bites, nipping, and that’s enough to get Louis inhaling sharply — feeling Lucas smooth his tongue over the bit of irritated skin. Not that Louis is complaining.

“Shit,” Louis mumbles, tilting his head back for better access. Lucas obliges easily, one of his other hands pressing against Louis embarrassingly already half hard dick.

A few moments later they’re kissing, lips chapped but neither of them seem to particularly give a fuck about that. They both taste like smoke, Lucas like mint and Louis supposes he tastes like the beer he’d had earlier. 

“Do you want to get back to the party?” Lucas asks even though he already knows the answer. Bastard.

“Fuck off,” Louis breathes out, voice breaking, “or fuck me.”

“I get my pick? Generous,” Lucas says, hand pressing down more firmly against Louis’ dick.

He’s going to come in his fucking jeans like a twelve year old, if this continues. “Get on with it, then,” Louis hisses through gritted teeth.

Lucas, now thankfully getting the hint, starts working off Louis’ pants. 

He’s not Harry, is the first clear thought that goes through Louis’ head. The second is that it doesn’t have to be fucking Harry, because even with Harry it doesn’t change anything. 

Lucas is about halfway to getting Louis’ pants off until he realizes, “We need a condom.”

“Fuck,” Lucas says, glancing around.

“Let me just, here —” Louis starts, sitting up. He probably has one in his wallet, maybe? Possibly. If anything there should be one around here.

Lucas is sitting there, shirt off and helping Louis look for a condom with his pants undone and still slightly hard in his fucking underwear. It’s looking rather hopeless, and Lucas has his lips attached to Louis’ neck when there’s a knock at a window.

Louis swears his heart fucking stops when he hears it.

And sure enough, there’s Harry in the window. Louis is fairly certain he’s never seen Harry look so fucking angry in the entire number of years Louis has known him.

Which, is a really long time. “Who’s that?” Lucas asks, breaking the train of thought cycling in Louis’ head.

“That’s my um, friend. You should get your shirt on and, get back from your break,” Louis says.

Thankfully, by some stroke of luck, Lucas doesn’t argue. Apparently has caught on to the fact that Louis’ friend looks super fucking pissed, standing outside and waiting for them to look at least somewhat presentable.

“What the _fuck_ are you doing,” Harry snaps, voice sharp and angry after Lucas has gone and Louis is standing outside his car.

He should’ve brought a fucking coat.

“Thought it should be pretty obvious, what I was doing. Or, about to do, actually,” Louis says. They’re supposed to hurt, his words. And he fucking hates that. Hates that he has to do that to Harry, of all people.

Harry’s jaw is clenched, fists at his side. “We should go. Unless you want to stay, finish what you started.”

“No,” Louis tells him simply, adjusting his shirt. “We can go. I’m done, I think.”

“Alright,” Harry says, still sounding really fucking pissed.

“Have you had a lot to drink —” Louis starts, but is cut off.

“I had one fucking drink,” Harry says firmly, just about slamming his door while getting into the driver’s seat.

Question answered, then. Fairly straightforward. 

The party doesn’t look to being finished, pulling out of the parking lot. Louis sinks in his seat, feeling sick to his fucking stomach, crossing his arms over his chest.

Harry drives faster than Louis has ever seen him, with sharp movements and jerky corners, as if he’s suddenly forgotten how to fucking drive. But Louis doesn’t say anything, just sits, taking in a deep breath. 

Feels like a fucking eternity, when they pull up. Harry, once again, slams his door like a pouting five year old and storms inside.

Louis follows after, footsteps carrying him into the kitchen, where Harry is standing at the counter, hands braced in front of himself.

“So that’s it? You’re going to slam things and refuse to speak to me?”

“What the fuck were you doing, with that guy,” Harry says.

Louis stares at him, unmoving. “You can’t make me feel fucking ashamed about that. You have no fucking right.”

“Oh, yes, thank you for the reminder. I’m not trying to make you feel ashamed I’m trying to figure out what the fuck you were _doing_.”

“Precisely that, actually. Until you showed up.” Louis really needs to learn tact. Or filter. His mother’s been saying it for years, and now he finally might fully understand why she’s said that.

Harry’s cheeks are flushed. He’s like some sort of ticking bomb, standing there. And Louis hasn’t any sort of clue when he’s going to go off.

“That’s fucking great, Louis. Sorry I interrupted, then. Seemed like you two have a really nice connection happening,” Harry says, his words cold and flat. Meant to hurt Louis, jarring and so very serious that same, tight sensation returns to his chest.

“You’re such a fucking dick, you know that?” Louis snaps angrily.

“I’m quite aware, thanks. Don’t need to point it out,” Harry says, equally as harsh.

“I’m the one being mocked when you were at the fucking bar with some _girl_ , flirting with her and whispering in her fucking ear. Putting in on a show for the entire fucking room to see, weren’t you? Had her practically eating out of the palm of your fucking hand.”

“The girl, you mean Ed’s girlfriend? Explaining to her about the football game going on behind us? Yes, Louis, you caught me. I was hitting on her. One of my best mate’s girlfriends, because I’m a raging asshole who can’t keep it in my fucking pants.”

Louis can feel tears in his eyes, but doesn’t blink. Doesn’t let them fall against his cheeks. Doesn’t let himself break, standing here.

“How the fuck was I supposed to know that?”

“I don’t know, Louis, I don’t fucking know. I can’t just stand here and pretend like I know what’s going on in your head when I don’t. Have no idea, not a fucking _clue_.”

Louis takes in a deep breath, shaking his head. It feels like everything they’ve done, all they’ve built up in the past number of weeks has been for nothing. Not a fucking thing, because they always end up tearing it down eventually, by their own damn hands. No regard for how far they’ve come, how much they’ve done, all the efforts they’ve made.

It’s as if they were destined to fall apart from the start. 

Louis presses the heel of one of his hands to his eye, rubbing at it. He’s exhausted, but doesn’t want to sleep. “You know what I was thinking about, in the car,” he finally asks.

Harry grimaces, “Don’t think I want to know.”

“I was fucking — I was telling myself it was you I was with, not him. Couldn’t bring myself to think about it being with anyone else. Like I’m fucking stuck on you, or something. Have always been fucking stuck on you.”

There’s silence. Louis breaks it again, “Am I always going to be in love with you then?”

And there it is. No way around it, nothing to take it back with. It’s out in the open between them, the thing unsaid in Louis’ fucking chest for years, finally let out.

He’s going to be fucking sick.

Because Harry isn’t _saying anything_. He’s just standing there, with this pained expression on his face, and Louis doesn’t know what the fuck to do. Because sometimes, as Louis has found out, you don’t get the fairytale fucking ending everyone always talks about. You don’t get that famed look from the person you’re madly in love with, telling you that hey, they love you too. Instead you waste so many fucking years wanting them, with nothing to show for it but a broken fucking heart and a chest that feels like it’s caving in, with everyone unraveling around you.

That’s what love is. That’s what Louis knows love is. That’s all he’s even been shown what love is, because all that he’s ever loved is Harry. Who very clearly, in this moment, doesn’t love him back.

He’s about to go upstairs and never come out until Harry’s kissing him, and it takes a good half a minute for Louis to realize that Harry’s actually, really, kissing him. 

Fuck. Fucking fuck. 

This doesn’t fix anything. In fact, this doesn’t change anything, not where Louis is standing. But he kisses Harry back anyway, because he’s wanted this for so fucking _long_ he can’t not. And Harry’s got one of his fucking massive hands on Louis’ lower back, warm and pulling him close that soon Louis finds himself running his tongue along Harry’s lower lip, not wanting any sort of space between them. 

Maybe he’s doing this because he pities Louis. Possibly because Harry knows how Louis feels now, and can get one good fuck out of him before he leaves.

Either way, Louis doesn’t move. Isn’t sure he wants to know the answer to any of the silent questions in his head. He just wants Harry. Just lets out a quietly murmured, “fuck,” when Harry nips at his lower lip.

Neither of them make any sort of real effort to stop kissing, especially after Harry suggests they go up to his room. Louis agrees, practically panting into Harry’s mouth as they try to maneuver their way up the stairs without breaking both their necks in the process. 

Louis’ jacket is by the front door, Harry’s shirt already obscenely undone so they’ve made some headway to being naked by the time they get to his bed. Louis’ fingers are just about trembling, smoothing over the skin of Harry’s chest.

“You sure you want this,” Harry asks, tracing a hand up and down Louis’ side, shirt now tossed onto the floor.

It feels as though his heart is going to pound out of his chest into a million fucking pieces, the way Harry’s watching Louis’ mouth, his own lips puffy and one of the darkest shades of red Louis has ever seen them. “Of course I fucking want this,” Louis manages to get out, and kisses Harry again.

Harry’s shirt is next, and Louis can feel him already hard against his thigh. He’s nearly there himself, embarrassingly enough, and closes his eyes when Harry presses his lips to Louis’ neck teasingly.

That gets a reacting out of Louis, muffled against Harry’s shoulder, hips rocking involuntarily. 

He hates that Harry has that kind of power over him, with a simple touch or touch of the lips. Louis doesn’t know when he gave over that kind of power to him, but there’s no getting it back now. Not when Harry’s above him, hair a mess and skin warm and soft under Louis’ fingertips. Everything he’s ever wanted, but couldn’t have until now.

It feels as though everything inside of him is on fire with want, the desire pooling and curling in his stomach something real and unlike anything Louis has ever felt before. As if his entire body is on fire with it, can feel Harry’s warm breath against his cheek and fingertips gently skating along Louis’ jawline, mapping him out.

Louis doesn’t think he’ll forget any part of Harry, after tonight. Will always remember how there’s been a bit of stubble when Louis has kissed along his cheek, or the way his chest rises and falls under the palm of his hand, heartbeat just underneath his palm.

Their pants come off next, in a rush of urgency now that they’re both really fucking hard. Harry reaches across, opening his bedside table and getting what Louis hopes and prays is lube and a condom.

Thankfully, he’s right, and Harry settles between Louis’ legs to get the lid off of the lube. It’s been months since Louis’ had had anyone’s fingers inside him besides his own, so the sensation of Harry’s finger pressing lightly into his opening feels like enough to make Louis come right then and there.

He chokes out a sound, cuts himself off when Harry presses his first finger in slowly, teasingly. It’s cold from the lube, but Louis doesn’t have anything to complain about when he starts to work up a rhythm inside of him. Louis simply clenches around his finger and bites his lower lip to keep himself from letting go, his already hard cock against his stomach.

Harry leans forward, sucking on the skin of Louis’ neck before inserting a second finger, working his way inside. Louis can barely register the mark Harry’s making on his skin with his two fingers inside him, distracting and making his cock twitch.

“Fuck, Harry, please —” Louis chokes out, desperate. 

Seeming to get the hint, Harry adds a third finger, which is enough to send Louis completely over the edge. He brings his hands to grip Harry’s waist, trying to anchor himself and breath at the same time, which is proving to be difficult.

Like some sort of fucking treasure hunt Harry manages to get to Louis’ prostate, teasing and pushing up against it which is enough to get Louis scratching his nails along Harry’s back, pressing into the skin.

Harry removes his fingers a few moments later, leaving Louis stretched out and needy, clenching around nothing. There’s a press of lips to his temple, though all Louis can really focus on is how much he needs Harry inside of him _now_.

Which comes when Harry’s got the condom on, all slicked up and pressing the tip of his cock inside of Louis. It’s too much but not at all enough, Louis thinks in his hazy mind, pressing his face against Harry’s face helplessly. Even when Harry presses in further Louis can’t seem to fucking think straight, head spinning with Harry breathing heavily above him.

Nothing will ever come close to this. Nothing and no one, and Louis knows that. But can let himself have this, for now, he reasons with himself. After years of wanting, this can be the one thing the world can let him have. 

The hurt comes later. Louis doesn’t have to think about later. Just has to think about right now, with Harry. That’s it.

So when he comes, with Harry inside him and letting out a shout, Louis doesn’t think about it. Still doesn’t, when Harry comes moments later by Louis’ hand, removing his condom and going to get them a wet flannel. 

Even when he’s done drying them off, the room dark and neither of them really saying anything, does the hurt finally start to settle in. Heavy on his chest, like a fucking weight. Filling in the cracks and making a home there.

Has always had a home here, feels like.

“Night, Lou,” Harry mumbles, pressing a wet kiss to his cheek, lazy arm slung around his waist.

Louis swallows the lump in his throat, trying to force his eyes closed. 

—

He doesn’t sleep well, or for very long. Somewhere before five in the morning Louis gets up, being careful not to wake the still very asleep Harry, with his long, octopus arms draped across his hips.

It’s colder in the mornings, the sun behind some clouds as Louis pads off into his room. There’s no real question about it in his mind: he needs to go.

With that one, solitary thought echoing through his head Louis takes out his suitcase and starts putting everything inside of it. Taking out his phone he checks for flights to London, for today, scrolling through. There’s one that’s supposed to leave at four thirty, according to this website.

Everything inside of him is itching to get out. And with Harry still fast asleep, Louis knows he’s got a few more hours until Harry finally wakes up to get there.

It proves a little difficult, getting his bag out and the door closed without making any sort of loud sounds in the process. Louis stands in the kitchen a few moments, hands on his hips and considering. He could stay. But what good would that do? Where would that get him and Harry?

Maybe he wants Harry to wake up, notice Louis is gone, and come downstairs. Catch him before he leaves.

He emails Julian and Ed, telling them he’s got to make a sudden trip home. But he can still help in whatever way from his house, hitting the send button and taking out his car keys.

This is the closest thing they’ll get to a goodbye, Louis realizes once he gets into the driver’s seat. It’s better this way; easier. Makes things less messy; or could just be an easy way out.

He’s been here for a little over a few months, and has nothing to show for it but a suitcase in the back seat. Louis isn’t sure if he should be proud of it or not.

The rental car gets returned, and Louis get the ticket for his flight without any sort of issues. 

One of the most prominent emotions he feels is guilt, checking in. But that’s probably because he left without saying goodbye, not for any other reason, Louis tells himself firmly. 

Sometime before take off he texts Liam he’ll be home sooner than expected, shutting off his phone and staring at his ticket. /London - Heathrow/ he reads over and over, as if double checking that is, in fact, where his final destination is going to be.

But there’s no error, nothing wrong with the ticket itself. Louis swallows the lump in his throat, taking out a small, nearly tattered notebook from his backpack. Niall gave it to him, a while back. Told Louis that he’s always got so many fucking thoughts in his head that he should have something to put them down in, and promptly gave Louis this. Tied with something that should have been assumed to be a bowtie, done almost like a professional.

There isn’t much in it, not yet. Just random words or lyrics, other pages having poems on them Louis liked at the time he’d been reading. Zayn’s drawn a couple of pictures in some of the pages, Liam’s scribbles of lyric idea’s on others. 

So not just for Louis’ thoughts, then. He takes out a pen, fiddling with the cap of it as he turns to one of the few blank pages left. It won’t fix anything, not by a long shot, but it’ll help for now at least. When Louis is on this plane with nothing left to do, this is the only option he has to try and reconcile the turmoil raging in his chest. 

“Passengers, we are about to begin our take off, please ensure that your seatbelts are securely fastened —”

—

Being home is weird. Strange might be another word. Empty is one for sure, Louis thinks one morning where he’s sitting in his kitchen.

Jetlag is a fucking bitch, keeping him awake since four in the fucking morning when his body decided to wake up. His legs are hanging over the counter, tea in hand and wishing he was asleep. 

Zayn called last night, talking to Louis until he finally dozed off for a couple of hours. Liam and Niall are coming over sometime this week, given that Louis hasn’t completely passed out on his bed for the next week or so.

Ed’s been emailing and texting constantly, asking question’s and giving Louis things to do from home. Keeping him busy, which is something he’s thankful for, for the most part.

He should’ve said goodbye. It’s the only thing he’s been able to really think about since being home, and isn’t quite sure what to do with it.

Twitter has nothing interesting. Instagram just about the same as Twitter when Louis decides to give up on his phone entirely, leaving it on the table before going into the living room. He’s been in the same track pants for nearly three days, and doesn’t have any intent on changing them when going to sit on his couch.

There’s plans to visit his mom and the girls tomorrow, sometime in the afternoon. So until then Louis has time to wallow, pulling his knees up to his chest and hooking his chin on one of them. 

Great Bake Off is on, and Louis keeps it there. Pretends there’s someone beside him while he watches in silence, hoping it will fill the very large, noticeable void.

— 

The visit with his mom is good, as always. Jay frets over him constantly, asks if he’s eating well enough, that sort of thing. Continually poking and prodding at Louis’ cheeks and telling him he’s too thin, that there’s nothing left of him.

Which, that’s not true, but Louis doesn’t seem it very useful to argue with his mother. Especially when she’s got an entire home cooked meal in front of him, telling him about the past few months he’s been away.

“How was LA, then?” she asked sometime after dinner, when the girls were gone and it was just the two of them.

Louis looked at her a moment, pausing. Knew he could tell her what had happened, and she would listen. Give him that gentle, sympathetic gaze and tell him that it’s going to be alright, even if it doesn’t feel that way right now.

“It was good, yeah. Really, um. Hot,” Louis said.

Jay waited, as if expecting something else. But Louis never said it. “See anyone you know?”

Her question stayed in the air a few minutes, untouched, until he finally answered, “Yeah, Ed mostly. A bit of Julian and other songwriters. It was really good.”

She doesn’t push it. Probably because she already knew, sitting there. So she just reached forward, squeezing his hand once before going into the kitchen to make them more tea. Like a mind reader, Louis always thought of her. Could tell the secret, inner workings of his own head before he even knew what was going on up there.

They didn’t talk about it. Louis tells himself it’s better that way, not talking about it.

“Did you see him?” Liam asked a couple of night’s later, when him and Niall had come over.

“There’s a lot of him’s in LA, Liam. You’re going to have to be more specific, I’m afraid,” Louis informed him, rolling his eyes.

Most of the night had been, predictably, spent on the couch playing Fifa. With Liam tucked into his side and Niall under his arm, Liam sighed.

“Harry. Did you see Harry,” Liam clarified.

Niall didn’t say anything, just gripped at Louis’ waist with his familiar fingers. Louis swallowed, then said, “Yeah, few times. Was nice, catching up.”

If Harry told any of them anything beyond that, they didn’t question it. Instead, Liam started in on the “state of uncleanliness” in Louis’ home, Niall defending that “it’s always this unclean, Li, have you met him —” which started an entirely new argument that didn’t involve Harry, thankfully.

Not that Louis doesn’t want to talk about him, it’s just. Like an open sort of wound, right now, so to speak. Sensitive. Can’t handle a lot. So he keeps nursing it, which probably isn’t good for it anyway. But since when does Louis give a fuck about that.

“Oi, if you two could fuck right off out of my house that would be great —” Louis started, being cut off by Niall’s cackling filling the entire room.

Zayn had been a quiet sort of presence, knowing but also calming. Sitting in the kitchen, tea at hand and staring at Louis, almost expectant.

“What, did you want me to get my detailed journal of every day spent in LA for you? Just so you could see what I was really up to?” Louis asked, sarcastic.

But he’d just curled a hand around his mug, expression blank, “I don’t need a journal. You were there for Ed’s album, right?”

Louis glared at his own mug, as if it’s somehow betrayed him. Laid out all his secrets for Zayn to see, right here in his very own kitchen. Traitor, indeed.

“Not sure I like your tone,” Louis said pointedly. 

A brief silence passed between them. Similar to the one Louis had had with his mother, in her own kitchen. 

“It was the album, and it was fine, thanks for asking,” Louis finally caved, looking back over at Zayn across from him.

“Liam said Harry was helping a bit, with stuff. How was that?”

Even his name makes it feel like there’s some sort of iron grip on his chest. For fuck’s /sake/.

“Nothing too spectacular. He’s good with the song writing, that kind of thing.”

“You’ve written a song or two in your day,” Zayn pointed out.

“ _Anyway_ ,” Louis continued. “Nothing really to report there, I guess.”

“I guess not,” Zayn echoed, but there was still that silent statement. Louis could talk about it, if he wanted.

But he didn’t want. Still doesn’t want to, sitting back at home and needing to go out to Tesco’s. 

And, with nothing left to lose but his dignity in the outfit he’s wearing, Louis goes. Takes his keys and goes into his car without allowing himself a moment to change his mind.

It’s dark. The road’s wet from the downpour earlier today. And ten minutes later he pulls up into the parking lot, taking his wallet and phone before going inside.

Toothpaste. Milk, because what he had in the fridge went bad a couple of days ago. Razor. Shaving cream. A packet of Curly Wurly’s for old time’s sake, because he used to eat like, ten a day when he was little and his mother wasn’t home to catch him.

Also some wipes, because mostly everything is filthy. The woman at the cash register gives him a judgemental stare for the things he’s already got to purchase, but he doesn’t have time to focus on that.

There’s a bargain bin for movies, five dollars for select titles. Space Jam is the first one he see’s, and since Louis has never actually seen the famed classic basketball movie, puts it in. All set.

The woman, Judy, gives Louis a withering stare as she rings him through. He ignores it, opts out instead for looking busy trying to find his credit card to pay and not comment on it.

Fuck that. He’s being an independent, twenty something year old, providing for himself. What’s there to judge? Nothing.

Louis packs a bowl when the movie starts, but doesn’t have any time to get started on the movie or said bowl, when his phone goes off. He blinks, reading the caller ID.

“Shit,” Louis mumbles, shifting. 

Harry. Harry’s calling him, at whatever shit o’clock time it is in LA. A sour taste settles in his mouth, an even heavier feeling of guilt on his chest. 

He should answer. After the mini hell Louis put him through, he should at least pick up. 

But he doesn’t. Just stares at his television screen and reminds himself, even as his phone continues to buzz, that this is the better of the two solutions. If he picks up, it’s just letting the wound fester. Wouldn’t help him, or Harry. Just make things more — complicated. 

There’s no second call. Louis isn’t sure if he’s disappointed or not with that.

— 

_Louis? It’s, um. It’s me. Harry. But you knew that, didn’t you. Caller ID. Probably why you didn’t pick up. Don’t blame you, I guess._

_Yeah — just, give me a minute, okay? Yeah I’ll be back, just a minute, —_

_I’m drunk. Which explains why I got the actual courage to take out my fucking phone and call you, like I’ve pretended to do since you left. Remember that? When you left? I woke up and you weren’t there anymore. Just the other half of my bed. Big and empty._

_I’m not here to yell at you, or anything. I’m just, fuck, Lou. I miss you. So fucking much. This house it’s stupid and big and empty and you’re not here. You’re in London and I can’t think straight anymore and I fucking — I /hate/ it. There were what, like four years without you? And then suddenly you’re here, and it was like. No time had past. Nothing. It was just how it used to be, with us. And I never thought we could have that back, but we can. Or, could, I guess. I don’t fucking know anymore._

_I should go. I’m like, really drunk. Sitting outside Ed’s house on this weird, porch swing, thing. Cars keep driving by. They’re playing shitty music. The kind you’d spend all night complaining about. I want to hear you complain about it._

_Should go though, I guess. Fuck, bye Lou._

Louis doesn’t delete the voicemail.

— 

It’s a couple of weeks later when Niall calls him. Making eggs and toast and praying that he doesn’t fuck it up too badly.

“I’m very busy, Horan. Speak fast,” Louis answers, putting him on speaker.

“What, cooking again?” Niall asks knowingly.

“Fuck off.” Louis spits.

“You practicing for when we’re married, then?” Niall asks.

“Right, ‘course. I’d nearly forgotten.”

Niall scoffs, “Forgotten about our wedding. Truly terrible.”

“Just call me Louis the Truly Terrible Husband,” Louis responds.

“We’ll make it a legal change eventually,” Niall says, then there’s a pause.

“What is it,” Louis asks, wanting to get whatever bad news it is out of the way and over with.

“I just, wanted to call. Make sure you knew.”

“I can’t know something if I have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about,” Louis tells him, flipping an egg. A bit black on the edges, but not completely. Definitely a plus, from where he’s standing.

“Right, sure.” Niall pauses. Louis waits. “Harry’s here? In England. Just flew in yesterday, apparently.”

Louis just about drops his phone, “What?”

“Apparently he’s visiting Anne? I’m not really sure. That’s what Liam told me, anyway. Said I should probably call you and let you know.”

Louis presses his lips together, exhaling. “Yeah, no, that’s good you told me.”

“You alright?” Niall asks.

“M’fine,” Louis says, “I’ve just got stuff cooking, so I should go.”

“If you need anything you can just, give me a call,” Niall offers.

“I know,” Louis tells him, “thanks, Ni.”

The call ends and Louis puts down the phone, staring at it. 

— 

Ed’s album release party is in South London, at some reworked warehouse that moonlights as a gallery. It sounds to Louis like Ed has been hanging out with too many LA folk. Even if Louis wasn’t late as usual, getting into his car a whole five minutes before it begins, the fact that he has to trek all the way across the river would make him. 

A part of him, big enough that Louis won’t ever admit to, wants to think that maybe he’ll be there. He grips the steering wheel tighter, London traffic slow as fuck, which isn’t anything out of the ordinary. 

Maybe he should bail. Though Louis knows how terribly rude it would be of him to not even show his face after all the work he and Ed put into this.

He parks the car, getting out and making sure his cigarettes are in his pocket, as he walks through the front door. It’s the typical party, in every sense of the word, Louis thinks as he steps inside. There are promotional posters all along the wall, people talking among one another as Louis gets himself a drink.

Julian’s there, talking to Greg James and soon Louis finds himself roped into the conversation. He’d seen Niall around somewhere and makes a mental note to find him in a little while. 

He’s fucking nervous. Feels like at any given moment he’s going to be sick everywhere, which wouldn’t be good. He doesn’t even really know why he’s so fucking nervous, shifting on his feet and glancing around every few moments.

“Fucking great album, Louis, honestly,” Niall tells him a little while later, arm slung around Louis’ shoulders. 

“Thank you, did it all myself,” Louis jokes. Niall laughs loudly into his shoulder, shaking his head; cheeks flushed, a very obvious sign he’s been drinking.

Ed comes by a few moments later, him and Niall talking while Louis half listens. He’s about to excuse himself to maybe get another drink, when he sees someone.

Not just someone. It’s Harry, if the tight jeans are any sort of indicator. Immediately, Louis feels his heart start to pound in his chest — loud and insistent. Fuck, alright then, he thinks to himself. 

Maybe he won’t see Louis. Maybe, since his last voicemail, he’s gone and forgotten all about whatever it was they’ve been going through the past number of months. Maybe, maybe, maybe; God, Louis has a headache.

He’s about to excuse himself and run out to his car when Harry sees him. Louis waits; he isn’t sure what to do next, chewing on his lower lip.

Harry smiles, and Louis is sure he’s seeing things. But he smiles back, and even waves, just to make sure. And Harry’s smile widens, and Louis feels something like relief flood through him.

The next time he looks over at Harry, he’s already staring at Louis. After a moment he jerks his head, indicating that he wants to talk to Louis, most likely. Subtle, Styles.

Telling Ed and Niall he’ll be right back, Louis follows. Watches Harry weave through the crowd, waving and saying hello to people as he passes by. A small sense of uncertainty clutches at Louis’ chest, real and slightly urgent as he follows Harry to one of the far corners of the gallery.

His beer is almost warm, going to stand in front of Harry. “Hi,” Louis starts, scratching the back of his neck.

“Hey,” Harry says back.

Louis pops his lips, wetting them a bit with his tongue, because apart from that he’s got no idea what the fuck else to say, standing there. “So you’re back, in um. In London,” Louis says.

Harry laughs, quietly, “Very observant, aren’t you.”

“Don’t quite appreciate your sarcasm,” Louis says, doing his very best to sound firm. It’s not working. He can already feel the start of a smile tugging at his lips.

How ridiculous are they, then, he thinks to himself. “Sorry, won’t make a habit of it,” Harry says apologetically. 

“What are you doing tonight?” Louis asks.

Harry blinks, slow and tired. “Was going to stay here a bit, then go back to my mom’s.”

A few people push past them, Louis clearing his throat before saying, “You could come back to mine. For, you know. Tea and real food.”

“So a beet and kale smoothie?” Harry asks. Louis would laugh, were he not trying to make himself sound very serious and adult-like right now.

“Not on your fucking life, Styles,” Louis says. He’s about to walk away when he feels the small, warm press of Harry’s palm on his waist. Immediately, Louis’ cheeks heat up, as he bites his lower lip.

“Alright, well. I’ll be there, with or without the smoothie,” Harry says.

“Good God,” Louis says, making no attempts to get out of Harry’s grasp. “You’re such a sap, I can’t believe this.”

Harry smirks, and tells Louis he’ll see him in a little while, before being called over to talk to a group of people. 

But, it feels good. Right, even. 

It’s a little before eleven, when Louis decides to leave. He told Harry to come whenever he was done there, going out to his car.

The drive feels longer than it took to get there, the roads longer and his car feeling somehow slower. But it might just all be in Louis’ head, he thinks to himself, going through the front door. 

He should probably tidy the place up a bit. But Louis can’t exactly be fucked to do so, going into the kitchen and turning on the kettle. Does he even have food here, he’s no idea, going to look through the cupboards.

Not much food, if he’s being honest. Doesn’t matter, though. Louis hopes Harry’s not coming over solely for the reason of food and tea. 

Feeling restless, he turns on the television; lets the sound fill the living room and the kitchen next to it as he gets out a mug. Nothing to be nervous about, as clearly shown by how Harry was at the party. 

Maybe it shouldn’t be this easy. Maybe they’re just tricking themselves into thinking it could be. They might just want something so bad they’re going to pretend that nothing was fucking wrong while Louis was in LA. Then it would be a lie, wouldn’t it.

Louis is about halfway through this terrible train of thought when there’s a buzz, from the gate. Checking the video he sees Harry, unlocking it. 

“Nice gate,” is the first thing Harry says as he approaches. Louis rolls his eyes.

“Using my own pick up lines. Get your own material, Styles,” he says, closing the door behind them.

“You promised tea?” Harry asks, expectant.

“Kitchen,” Louis directs, and Harry goes easily.

They’re both oddly quiet, while Louis gets Harry’s tea together. His has gone cold, sitting on the counter while waiting for Harry to get here. Each are on opposite sides of the island, when Louis hands him his mug.

“Is this weird,” Harry finally asks, taking a sip.

Louis runs a hand through his hair, considering. “Doesn’t feel all that weird, if I’m honest.”

“You left.” Harry says it as if it’s a statement. Not particularly angry, or really anything with his emotions are involved when he says it out loud. More so like a statement, as if he were reading an article from the newspaper.

“I didn’t know if you wanted me to stay,” Louis says slowly. “That night was kind of — fucked, if you remember.”

“I remember,” Harry says, and now Louis can hear a bit of hurt turning in his voice. Feels his throat tighten. “We were fucking idiots.”

“Not going to argue that,” Louis says, sipping his nearly cold tea. 

It feels like Louis is holding his breath, waiting. Anticipating. For the yelling, the screaming. The hurtful words and the slamming of doors. But it doesn’t come.

“I shouldn’t have — done those things, in your car. With that guy. Probably would’ve been best if I just told you,” Louis admits finally.

Harry nods, slowly. “I could’ve told you eventually myself.”

“So, we suck at communication is something I’m getting from this.” Louis says flatly.

“Probably, yeah,” Harry says in agreement.

“Are we going to, like.” Louis stops, rubbing a hand along his face. “I don’t know. What are we going to do now?”

“With what?” Harry asks.

“With us,” Louis clarifies.

And here it comes, he thinks to himself. The inevitable rejection, full force and heading right for him. Louis grips the counter, giving himself some sort of brace before it finally hits him.

“I mean, I live in LA. You live here.” Harry starts. Louis takes in a deep breath. “But that’s not the end of the world.”

“Listen, Harry, if you don’t want anything just fucking say it. I don’t have time for —”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Harry cuts him off, “I want us to at least try, instead of not giving it any kind of chance.”

“What,” Louis asks in disbelief.

“Us,” Harry continues. Louis has to remind himself to breathe. “I think we could, you know. Be pretty fucking great together, if we wanted to be.”

“That means we have to communicate. And not fuck random valet’s in the back of each other’s car,” Louis says.

Harry nods solemnly. “That, and not scream at each other until we fuck each other.”

“I mean, sure. Seems reasonable.”

“Also not talking for four years might help,” Harry adds. 

Louis stares at him, but Harry doesn’t move. Is rather firm where he’s sitting, looks like. “That’s it, then. We’re just going to try this? Right now?”

Harry shrugs, running a finger around the edge of his mug. “I mean, if you want. I’m not going to force you too.”

“No, I want to. Try, I mean. At — this, us. Whatever that looks like.” Louis says.

And there it is.

It’s a few moments until Harry gets off his stool, coming around the island. Louis waits, not saying anything when there’s the gentle press of warm hands on his hips.

When he looks up, Harry presses his forehead against his, carefully. “Just remember, you willingly brought this upon yourself.”

“This?” Harry repeats, lips so close Louis can almost taste them.

“This. Me. However you want to say it,” Louis snaps, no real heat behind it. 

Harry just grins, the bastard, shrugging. “The sooner you kiss me, the sooner we can go and watch Bake Off.”

Louis snorts, rolling his eyes when Harry finally does kiss him, lips warm and chapped and exactly how Louis remembers them. Tastes a bit like tea and mint, and Louis is sure he doesn’t want to taste anything but that for the rest of his life.

About halfway through the episode Louis drifts off on the couch, Harry beside him and playing with his fingers gently, lulling him to sleep.

He feels the gentle press of lips to his temple, then he’s asleep, feeling the most relaxed he has in years.

— 

The first time Harry tries to get himself off with Louis on Skype, a couple of weeks later, one of his friends walks in on them. Which, sufficient enough to say, was really fucking embarrassing. Not too mention one time when Louis tried to dirty talk Harry over the phone Niall was one room over, ended up banging on the wall and threatening to burn the house down if they didn’t cut it out.

Needless to say, relationships long distance are not something that are meant to be easy. Of course, Louis didn’t really think this through at the airport, dropping Harry off. Not when Harry was telling them they’d be fine, it was all going to be fine. That it will be like he never left. 

It’s not that Louis doesn’t think they’re good together, because they are. For the most part. A few fights here and there, but that’s normal, as Liam tells him.

“An expert relationship advice giver are you?” Louis asked, tossing a piece of bread at him one day at Liam’s house.

But Louis can’t help but wonder where this is going. Are they always going to be on opposite sides of the world, in completely different time zones. They’re busy with their own things: Louis with his record company and producing, Harry with his own work in the studio with artists, so it’s not like they don’t have lives in their respective cities.

Louis just misses him. And he hates to fucking say it, but that’s what it is.

It’s been almost five months now, since the last time they’d seen each other not through any kind of screen. 

Sometime around four in the morning, a couple of weeks later, Louis’ phone buzzes. He half expects it to be Zayn, but is surprised when he sees Harry’s name.

_Come here._

Louis pauses, reading it over once, twice, and even a third time before sitting up in his bed. Because why the fuck not, honestly.

The flight is long and he’s fucking exhausted, a voice talking over the sound system while Louis collects his bags. It’s sunny outside, in the usual LA warmth that comes with the area. 

Maybe he shouldn’t have come. Maybe this was all a mistake, whatever the two of them thought they had.

But that’s when Louis sees him, standing there. Waiting. With his ridiculously, long hair and tight jeans, phone at hand and reading over something. 

Harry glances up, taking a few seconds until he finally spots Louis. His entire face breaks into this big, wide smile Louis knows is only for him. Has always been for only him.

Louis is home.

**Author's Note:**

> on the world wide web [here](http://loueh.tumblr.com/). drop in and say "hey"


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